


A Wicked Whisper Came

by CMTaylor



Series: Oceana [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMFs, Boats and Ships, Character(s) of Color, Epic, F/M, Fantasy, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Slash, Original Universe, Sea Monsters, Slash, Slow Build, Wartime Romance, Women Being Awesome, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 203,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMTaylor/pseuds/CMTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valory bar Adrianth, second son of the king, has spent his life traveling Oceana and the Eastern World in his father’s name.</p><p>Arden bar Miran, youngest of the House of Stewards, has lived his life under a name his father didn't give him.</p><p>But now Oceana is a nation at war. Shadows are spreading from the south. Foul creatures are appearing, some of which were thought to exist only in myth. A nameless evil is pressing upon the borders, its source unknown.</p><p>Oceana is a nation at war: but they do not know their enemy by name.</p><p>Valory intends to find the source of this evil. Arden strives to find his place. They did not plan on finding one another. Together they take to the high seas of the Armathian Ocean where they struggle with duty, honor, desire, and the mystery of the spreading shadow.</p><p>**Although this story is a part of a series, it can stand alone as well.**<br/>[Formerly titled: A Flash of Gold and Fire]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For updates and news for those of you who don't have Ao3 accounts (or who would like to send me direct messages), follow me on twitter @WriterCMTaylor.

 

 

All work is intellectual property of CMTaylor / dioxazinepurple .

 

* * *

 

_A Map of the Eastern World:_

 

 

_A closeup of Oceana and its isles:_

 

…

_The Season of Heat  
Fanán the 18; 2421_

The foul air clung to the town like a pestilent blanket. The breeze had died some days earlier, leaving the inland provinces to suffer in sweltering, stagnant heat. A thick silence reigned; even the animals had fled. Nothing moved save for a few wisps of smoke coming from the remains of smoldering ruins. The town had been razed to the ground.

Valory bar Adrianth picked his way down a side street, sun beating down on his shoulders as he searched a row of houses for survivors. Fire had ravaged many of them; roofs were caved in, walls were scorched, and the smell – the smell alone would churn even the most hardened of stomachs. He had spent the morning with a kerchief tied around his nose and mouth, though it still took all of his willpower not to gag.

Approaching yet another fire-blackened doorway, he paused as his eyes fell upon a pair of nails driven into the mostly-intact frame. His boots traced patterns in ash as he moved about the stoop, fingers snagging on several more pairs of nails hammered into the other side. He frowned. In his rush to clear through each of the houses, he hadn’t spent much time examining such details. Then again, most of the buildings had suffered far worse fates than this one; fire had not ravaged it as thoroughly as its neighbors.

Stepping inside the threshold, Valory froze as his eyes fell upon the twisted corpses that lay before him. Taking a long, slow breath, he swallowed down the rush of nauseous horror that assailed him. These were not the first bodies he had encountered that morning, nor would they be the last.

A second look revealed that the house once had four occupants – a small family. They lay huddled together on the floor where they had retreated when the smoke became too thick to bear. Forcing himself to think critically, Valory paced a circle around the bodies, examining their positions before returning to the front door. From what he had seen that morning, the majority of the townspeople had perished in bed, unaware of the attack unfolding around them. The rest, however, he always encountered in the front room. At first he had assumed that they had awoken during the attack and perished before they could escape their dwellings; yet the scene in this house gave him pause. There was no reason, after all, why they would have had time to huddle together in such a manner, yet not enough time to cross the threshold into open air.

Unless, of course, a bar had been nailed across their door, preventing them from making an escape.

Valory grit his teeth. The attack had been premeditated: of that he had no doubt. He took a quiet moment to pay his respects to the dead, touching two fingers to his brow, before turning on his heel and striding out to the street. He made for the square where his men had congregated after a thorough search of the town’s few public buildings. He caught sight of them as he rounded a corner, all three staring down at yet another body. As he drew closer, their quiet conversation reached his ears.

“Some handiwork,” Little was saying, spitting on the ground next to the charred corpse. His ruddy complexion appeared unusually ashen.

Gabriel frowned up at him in clear protest over his disrespect of the dead before noticing the origin of the corpse’s remaining tatters of clothing. The unfamiliar quilted fabrics painted the deceased as a villain rather than a victim; one of the attackers had perished as a result of his own handiwork.

“Dramor,” Imran sniffed, nodding at the body. He said it with a unique accent – a sibilance that the other man’s voice had lacked.

“You’re suspicious,” Gabriel stated. He shifted his weight, a twitch of his shoulders informing Valory that he was not merely making a guess regarding the Lieutenant’s state of mind.

Imran snorted. “Could you at least _pretend_ not to be able to hear my thoughts?”

Gabriel crossed his arms. “Not this again, Imran – you know I can’t help it.”

“Cannot, or will not?” Imran arched a brow.

The conflict was an old one, and had been hashed out with relative consistency throughout the years. Valory knew it wasn’t liable to go anywhere, and stepped forward to interrupt their half-hearted bickering.

“Settle down, we have work to do,” he said, deep voice silencing them. His men turned to face him, startled by his reappearance. Although he wore his customary stony expression, his men knew that he wasn’t unaffected by the scene. They had seen him touch his fingers to his brow in prayer a quarter of an hour earlier, when they had come upon the lifeless bodies of a mother and her children.

“Nosy Empath,” Imran muttered.

“It tickles when you’re worried, Imran – like a prickle running down my spine. Am I supposed to ignore it and hope it goes away?”

“Why,” Valory interrupted, “would Dramor send these men to raze this town? It’s a long way through the desert to reach our border settlements. Without a marching army, they can’t have aimed at taking territory.”

“We should have seen the signs, if this was done by a bigger company,” Little frowned.

“There was no company.” Valory nudged the charred garments of the Dramorian with the steel toe of his boot. “And this is no ordinary soldier.”

Realizing that his teammates were all looking to him for input, Imran shrugged. “It would be like sending us to burn a town in Dramor. Pointless killing. No gain in lands.”

“They’re not military?” Little asked.

“They are men of the sultan, but not true military,” Imran replied.

“Like us,” Valory confirmed. “He has the armor of an elite warrior, but bears no company sigil.”

“So all of this?” Gabriel asked, gesturing to the utter devastation surrounding them.

Valory’s dark brow drew down fiercely. “Purposeless. Mindless, needless killing; and not the first nor the last we’ll have seen by the year’s end.”

That was nothing short of the truth. They had encountered a series of worrisome scenes: the bones of predatory creatures by the roadside, a foul scent on the westerly wind, disappearances of dignitaries followed by rumors of war. It felt as though they were watching the hard-won, decades-old peace disintegrate before their eyes. The most unsettling aspect of it was that they weren’t quite sure who was at fault.

“Reckon it’s bait?” Little suggested.

“For who?”

“For us? For the King?” Little continued. After a beat, he shot a concerned glance at their commander. “Apologies, Val.”

“None necessary. You’re right – this is bait. Dramor is trying to incite a reaction from us. Gods only know why they’re looking to start a war.”

“Especially after how the last one went for them,” Little huffed.

Imran squatted next to the body, examining it with care. “You may think this is bias of mine, but this is not the style of the men of this order.”

“Bias or no, you’d know better than us, wouldn’t you?” Little shrugged as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The big, fair man was still unused to the strength of the desert sun.

“Something isn’t right,” Imran insisted.

“We all feel that way,” Gabriel murmured, earning another sharp glance from the Lieutenant.

Valory considered the oddities that he had seen that morning: the preyed-upon livestock, the nails in the doorframe, the lone semi-uniformed attacker. He began to pace his way across the green as he thought, leading his men back towards their horses. “This is no typical raid. As much as it pains me to say this, we must report it.”

“Not—“

“In person,” Valory confirmed. His statement met with a chorus of groans.

“To Anaphe? Nothing good ever comes out of Anaphe,” Imran scowled.

“Imran—” Valory began.

“No, sir. It is not personal for me: it is not as though Anaphe was taken back from Dramor during my lifetime. You of all people know that I have no love lost for my mother country.”

“Then?” Valory prompted.

“Bad luck follows us all throughout the Borderlands – _especially_ when we’re in Anaphe. Let’s not tempt fate.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have much of a choice. This is a matter I must discuss with Lord Conrad,” Valory replied.

“We could make for Armathia and inform Duke Edmund,” Gabriel suggested.

Little snorted. “As if the court in the capital is a better option.”

“As if Duke Edmund gave a drake’s hide about his province,” Imran spat.

“Imran’s got to the heart of the matter, gentlemen. Duke Edmund is too interested in climbing the ladder in Armathian court to trouble himself with politics in his homeland. We have known this for many years – it’s why my father and High Steward Miran sent Conrad to Anaphe in the first place.”

Gabriel sighed, picking his way over a corpse too small to be a grown adult. “It will be nice to see Lord Conrad again, at least. He is always a hospitable host.”

“I should hope so, as he’ll be my Steward one day,” Valory noted. He turned away from the main street of the town, doing his best to ignore the human wreckage around them.

 “At least there’s a breeze on the coast. It’s hot as hell here,” Little muttered.

 “Coastal route?” Gabriel offered.

“We are nearly to the Season of Storms, no? The coastal route will be a quagmire,” Imran pointed out.

“But faster, if we’re lucky,” Gabe countered. “It shouldn’t flood out for at least another month.”

“When are we _ever_ lucky?”

“Fair enough. We’ll take the overland route. All in favor?” Valory asked, ice-chip eyes surveying his men. The three murmured their assent.

“Well then,” Gabriel said, sparing one last glance for the corpse-littered shell of a town, “I suppose we have some preparations to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eastern World is fictional, and does not reflect historical continuity as we know it. Prime example: there are fore-and-aft rigged vessels, yet no firearms. It is what it is.
> 
> Title taken from Colerige's Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
> 
> There will be three more works in this series -- eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Season of Heat  
Fanán the 29; 2421_

Imran watched his commander work, studying his movements with care. Enchantments did not exist in Dramor, and so displays of such power had always fascinated him. Gabe and Little’s talents were subtler, invisible to a curious observer. Valory’s, one the other hand, was obvious – and the way the others carried on indicated that he was more powerful than his rare words on the subject suggested. Yet despite the strength of his gift (or perhaps in spite of it) he chose to use his talent only at those times that it was absolutely necessary.

This was one of those times.

Valory’s face was scrunched in concentration, dark brow lined with fierce determination. The scar that split one eyebrow and cut into the cheekbone below glinted an eerie silver in the sunlight. Their long shared history had given Imran bits and pieces of that story – something about an early assignment out to the islands and a run-in with sea-witches – but Valory avoided telling the tale in full. Imran sniffed. He hated sea-witches.

“You and sea-witches,” Gabe muttered.

Imran shot him a look. “For Fángon’s sake,” he whispered. “Stop it.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “You say that as if I _can_ stop it. If you think something with enough vehemence, I hear it word for word.”

“Shut up, the two of you, if you want this to work,” Little said, turning around. “The man’s trying to move a damn tree. Takes more concentration than you can imagine.”

Imran’s insistence upon taking the overland route had saved them a world of trouble. Though it was still early for heavy weather, an intense storm had whipped up a day earlier and would have caught them exposed had they been traveling along the coast. The Lieutenant’s demands kept them safely landlocked, but they still had obstacles to contend with: such as felled trees blocking bridge access to the city of Anaphe.

Imran was happy to learn that felled trees were within his commander’s scope of abilities. Bit by bit, Valory inched the enormous trunk away from the bridge entrance, fists balled and nearly shaking from the strain. All told it must have taken no more than a few minutes to clear the road, yet even that short span of time took its toll. When the gap was large enough Valory’s frame deflated; he wavered in place for a moment before turning towards them with a slight stagger. This wasn’t the first time he’d tapped into his enchantment that day, and Imran was spooked by how exercising it could so easily bring his commander low. Despite his dislike of Anaphe, he was glad that the city was finally in sight.

“Damn,” Valory swore underneath his breath, shaking his head. With one hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Sometimes, I actually wish I were stronger.”

“You’d hate it, if you were,” Little answered, stepping up and clasping their arms together. After a moment, the pinched look eased from Valory’s features.

“I appreciate this, Little.”

Little, on the other hand, seemed more fatigued than he had before. “No sense having to carry you through the gates of Anaphe. Conrad would report back to the capital, yeh? Your father would be livid.”

The gates of Anaphe were close enough that such a feat would not be so extraordinary; the four men could easily make out the walls of the city rising up from the surrounding settlements. The carved ramparts dwarfed the buildings that stood before them. Set in the center of the city walls were the golden gates, gleaming in greeting in the late afternoon sunlight – just like those of the capital. Anaphe was once Armathia’s twin city, but many of her towers and spires had been dismantled during the long years of Dramorian occupation. A few of the oldest still remained, glinting proudly against the cloudless sky.

Valory leveled a considering look towards the city that was at once so like and so unlike his home.  “One would think my father would understand the nature of enchantments by now, despite not having one himself.” He stretched as he approached Imran, nodding in thanks when the Dramorian handed over the reins of his horse.

“I know the Master Healer is a friend of his. I’m not taking any chances,” Little answered, stepping away and taking the reins of his own mount from Gabriel’s outstretched hand. “If you made your grand entrance bottom up on a horse, he’d send me straight back to lessons. Or prison. Depending on how forgiving his mood may be.”

“Lessons,” Valory said, swinging up onto his horse. “Spruce up your Healing techniques a bit.”

“You arse,” Little snorted, exhibiting his usual nonchalance regarding Valory’s rank. “Insult my technique and I _will_ leave you bottom up on a horse the next time you pass out. That’s a promise.”

“Best not pass out then,” Valory replied, a rare grin spreading across his features as he lead his horse through the entrance to the bridge. In the distance, the road stretched eastward, leading them back towards the sea.

…

Valory stifled yet another yawn; he was exhausted. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Little must feel, though a glance in his direction confirmed that he was not the only one struggling to hide his fatigue. Unfortunately, he knew that there would be no rest for either of them once they passed through Anaphe’s gates.

He could feel their proximity to the city in his bones. He knew that Gabriel could as well; he could see the troubled look lining the officer’s features. Gabriel’s Empathetic talent was strong enough that the immediate presence of so many others proved jarring and uncomfortable, the constant stream of outside thoughts plaguing him without end. Valory was thankful that his own enchantment had developed differently; he couldn’t imagine having the disjointed inner monologues of others superimposed upon his own.

The approach to Anaphe was quick. Their party was recognized by scouts and allowed to pass through checkpoints unmolested. By the time they reached the city gates, Valory could feel the buzz of excitement that surrounded news of their arrival; the signatures of other enchantments rested as white noise at the edge of his consciousness. Gabriel , on the other hand, looked as though he was being assaulted by the beginning stages of a migraine. The talismans they wore to deaden other signatures could only do so much.

“How are you holding up?” Valory asked, leveling an assessing gaze at his three men.

“Alright,” Gabriel shrugged, rubbing at his temple with gloved fingertips. “Your people are very excited at the prospect of your visit.”

“I see. Little?”

“Getting by, sir. One of the gate guards has an enchantment that’s making me want to crack skulls,” Little offered.

“Let’s try to avoid that, given the setting,” Valory said, a single arched brow reminding Little that they weren’t out in the Borderlands any longer. Such behavior wouldn’t be acceptable even in Anaphe. Such words would likely be frowned upon, as well. Especially from a Healer – even one as unlikely as the ironically nicknamed Little.

“Yes sir,” Little nodded.

“Imran?” Valory asked.

“Still not in possession of an enchantment,” he shot back.

Valory’s lips twitched. “Very well.”

They continued through the streets towards the inner city. Again they were expected, and the doors swung upon without a word from the City Guard. On the other side stood a middle-aged man in long robes of state, a happy smile on his face.

“My Lord,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow.

“Lord Conrad,” Valory said, inclining his head before dismounting. “It has been a long time.”

“Indeed,” Conrad said, moving forward to clasp Valory’s arm. “You look as though you’ve been to the locker and back.”

“And you seem in much better spirits than when we last parted ways. I’m glad,” Valory murmured.

A shadow passed over Conrad’s face. “Thia . . . she was a good woman. The girls have been helping me through – Gods only know how, since they’re coping with the loss of their mother.”

“They’re your daughters. If they’ve half of your strength divided amongst the three of them—”

“I’m not sure I’ve earned the flattery, my Lord. Now come, enough of this. As much as I do enjoy your visits, I know that you’re not here to assess my wellbeing in the absence of my late wife. I’ve prepared some rooms for the lot of you – simple to match your utilitarian taste in accommodation. My evening is cleared for the bearing of whatever bad news it is you’ve brought.”

Valory let out a chuff of laughter. “You don’t waste a moment, do you? Very well. We’ll see to our sorry state and be down within the hour to give our report.”

“Come hungry – I’ve got quite a spread planned,” Conrad grinned, resting his hands on his thickening midsection. Valory looked from his gut back to his face. The years had not been kind to Conrad. His once-brown hair had gone dark, and crow’s feet framed his grey-green eyes.

“I look forward to it,” Valory said, a soft dismissal. The future Steward bowed and swept back into the keep, robes of his office flapping about behind him as he departed.

“Not aging as well as his brother, eh?” Little asked.

“It would behoove you to be more tactful within earshot of his subjects, but you’re not wrong,” Valory sighed.

As the four men followed a page to their quarters, Little continued, “You have two decades on him, and yet it seems nearly the other way around.”

“I look like a man in his twenties?” Valory asked, arching an incredulous brow.

Little rolled his eyes. “You _would_ twist exaggeration into flattery. You know what I’m on about: you could pass for a man in his third decade, whereas Conrad looks every day of his forty and some-odd years. Perhaps more.”

“Such is the nature of enchantments, or in Conrad’s case, the lack thereof. As you well know.”

“Yet he’s to be your Steward someday, no?” Imran asked, joining the conversation.

“He is – our roles dictate that.”

“Hasn’t Lord Steward Verne already sworn fealty to your brother?” Little asked.

“He has, just as their father has sworn his allegiance to mine.”

“Yet you and Lord Conrad have been putting that off for what, twenty years now?”

Valory sighed. “It’s no secret that while Conrad and I get along well enough, our methods of governance are dissimilar. I always imagined myself taking up the Regency in the field, continuing to travel, acting as my brother’s arm in corners he cannot reach from Armathia. Conrad will be my right-hand man as soon as my father cedes the throne, and yet . . .”

“He’d not last a hard day’s ride in the Borderlands,” Imran put in.

“Just so.”

Little frowned. “So what, then? Conrad is not fit for the role?”

“That is not necessarily true,” Valory said, holding up a hand to forestall objections. “He is the viceroy of Anaphe, doing invaluable work towards helping Oceana survive these dark times. If that is not the work of a Steward, I know not what is. It is only my selfish desires which have prevented me from accepting his pledge. I would not be tied to the city of Anaphe until there was no other recourse.”

The four men stood silently outside their doors as the page nodded and left their company. They were all thinking the same thing: once Valory’s brother ascended to the throne, they would be forced to go their separate ways. Their leader would be landlocked in Anaphe, and they would be reabsorbed by Oceana’s army.

“He is old, Valory,” Little said.

“Not as old as I.”

“Yet your enchantment is so strong that you will see four generations of men live and die before you meet your end,” Gabriel murmured.

“At the least,” Little added.

“You are quite right, of course – that I will not be locked in Anaphe forever – but the idea that Conrad’s passing will bring freedom is repugnant to me.”

“Of course, sir,” Gabriel replied, smiling sadly before inclining his head and entering his room.

“An hour,” Valory reminded them before opening the door to his own chambers.

He heard Little and Imran’s muttered acknowledgement as he shut his door, leaning back against it with a thump. He had spoken true: although they had never been close friends, Lord Conrad was a good man – one of High Steward Miran’s brilliant sons. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to request Conrad’s pledge, nor would he cease evading situations in which Conrad might offer the pledge of his own accord.

The times were growing darker. Raids on the border were increasing in scope and severity. War loomed on the horizon: war that could break his father’s kingship for its unpopularity. Rumors of a festering evil were spreading across the islands. Truly, this was no time to be duty-bound to remain in Anaphe. What good was a Regent if that Regent were as sedentary as his master the King?

Valory stripped himself of his filthy traveling garments and moved toward the tub where a hot bath had been drawn. More importantly, he wondered, how could he help his father and brother discover the source of this nameless evil while trapped inside city walls? How, even, could he be useful within city walls? He was a soldier, a traveler. He could not fathom sitting on his hands within the keep while other men fought in his stead. He could not fathom Conrad strapping on light armor and riding breakneck across the Borderlands, either.

Little was not wrong. The Prince and his future Steward were remarkably mismatched – and Valory had not the slightest idea what to do about it.

…

“Let’s have these tidings, then,” Conrad said, leaning back as servants swooped forward to clear all of their plates. The court – including Conrad’s daughters – had long since been dismissed from their presence, allowing them to speak freely. Anaphe had been back under Oceanic control for merely a generation, and many enemy ears still roamed the city.

It was Little who began. “We’ve been spending some time in the Borderlands, my Lord, going from town to town based on rumors and word of mouth. The raids on the border have been getting fiercer as of late, and reports of strange happenings had begun to reach our ears.”

“Strange happenings?” Conrad asked.

Valory’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We kept gathering information about strange creatures preying upon livestock. In many cases the loss was only reported days later when farmers noticed that a few of their herd were missing. In some villages, however, the animal’s remains had been left behind.”

“Desert wolves?” Conrad suggested.

“We saw a carcass in one of the villages we visited. Desert wolves do not do what we saw,” Imran put in, taking a long puff of his pipe.

“We have also heard rumors of increased hostility coming from Dramor. The borders are being pressed with an insistence we haven’t seen in decades,” Valory noted. “We began to think that the two might be related, and continued to make our inquiries. Gabe?”

Gabriel nodded. “In one of the small towns we visited, the people seemed to be concentrating on a single name: Lannoch, their sister village with which they had very recently lost contact. Such a silence was unusual, we gathered. We were begged to investigate. And so we did.” Gabe paused there, unwilling to speak of the scene at Lannoch.

“I know Lannoch. It’s within my jurisdiction. It has been several weeks since we received any dispatches. I thought nothing of it, considering the capriciousness of the weather this time of year,” Conrad said.

After a few moments of silence, Imran finally made it plain. “The town was razed. It no longer stands.”

“Razed?”

Little coughed. “Just that, my Lord. Burned to the ground. Every man, woman, and child was slain – most reached their deaths through flame.”

Conrad looked towards Valory, whose stony expression had not altered. “Do you think it was Dramor?”

“We don’t know. We found a charred corpse that bore the scraps of the quilted armor of a warrior of the sultan’s order.”

“But?” Conrad asked.

“It would be like sending the four of us to burn an inconsequential border town,” Valory shrugged.

“Wouldn’t that be exactly who would be sent?” Conrad asked.

“The town was razed by fire, not through warfare. A few of the civilian corpses were struck with arrows, but not many. Most burned in their sleep, or succumbed whilst trying to escape their homes. If the sultan of Dramor wanted Lannoch destroyed in such a manner, he could have sent a single man with a torch and a bow to do the deed. Why occupy his most elite fighting force with such a task?” Valory wondered.

“Are you suggesting it was not the sultan’s order that did this?”

“If I’m to be honest with you, I’m not entirely sure what I’m suggesting. If it is a rogue Dramorian, he has attacked Lannoch at a choice time considering what else has been going on in the Borderlands. If he were one of the sultan’s fighters, then why was he sent? Did he go alone? How did he perish when the villagers clearly did not put up a fight? Is he part of a larger plan, the scope of which we have yet to understand? And if he is not what he seems, then – who in these lands would impersonate one of the sultan’s order? Or even, to what end would someone dress a charred corpse as an elite Dramorian fighter?”

“What would an enemy have to gain from deception?” Gabriel wondered.

“Whoever burnt Lannoch is a step and a half ahead of us,” Little muttered darkly.

The men lapsed into silence for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts and speculations. Eventually Conrad caught Valory’s eye and asked, “What would you have me do, my Lord?”

“I don’t know. That’s precisely why we came. We were hoping that you might have some news that would help us make sense of what we saw,” Valory murmured.

“I have heard some reports of livestock deaths in the borderlands. Many of my captains assured me that it was a particularly dry season, and the desert wolves would be roaming further from their usual territory. From what you tell me, however, it is not desert wolves to blame for these attacks. Now I learn that some enemy has razed a single village to the ground. Not a city of import, not a trading town, but a single small village on the border between Oceana and Dramor. For what, to get our attention?”

“I would I knew,” Valory said.

Conrad shook his head. “I’ve been hearing from the isles as well, my Lord. You’re not going to like this.”

“Of course I won’t,” Valory groaned.

“We’ve had a few arrivals from Lyre and Kythria over the past few weeks. The merchants were truly spooked. Most of them told tales of seeing fire and flashes on the horizon where no such things were possible. Many had encountered rogue vessels. Of course our merchant fleet is swift, but . . . we have some overdue arrivals. We are starting to believe some of our merchants lost at sea,” Conrad said.

“We can rest assured Dramor is not responsible for that,” Imran snorted, smoke spilling out his nostrils.

“But the Western clans that pay tribute to Dramor? What of them?” Valory asked.

“All the way down here?” Little countered.

“There’s more,” Conrad sighed. “There have been reports of creatures. Some of the merchants felt their ships jostled while underway at night. Lookouts have spotted dark patches in the water in areas too deep for plateaus or sea mounts. A handful of men have gone missing while on watch on calm seas.”

Conrad’s words were followed by a few heartbeats of silence. “Those are ill tidings indeed,” Valory breathed.

“Unless Dramor has spent the last decade wetting its feet and getting ready to give us a nasty surprise, I wouldn’t wager they’re involved,” Little grunted. Imran snorted again.

“It seems like too great of a coincidence for these attacks not to be related. I’m struck by the sightings of creatures in both of our tales,” Gabe put in.

“But desert and ocean?” Little asked.

“Perhaps Dramor was not responsible for Lannoch’s destruction?” Conrad suggested.

“Seems unlikely,” Little said.

“Yet it did not seem like the handiwork of the sultan’s order to me,” Imran reminded them.

“Then who burned Lannoch?” Conrad threw up his hands.

Valory held up a hand. “Let’s assume it _was_ Dramor. What would that tell us about our current situation?”

“That we’re being harassed from both sides,” Little replied.

“That the sultan’s elite fighting force is mobilizing within our borders,” Gabriel added.

“That somehow, Dramor has gained the ability to control creatures of myth,” Imran said with obvious sarcasm. Conrad shot him a frown. Imran shrugged, irreverent.

“Or that we are the unfortunate recipients of a terrible coincidence,” Conrad countered.

“Or that there is some sort of alliance at work of which we have no concept,” Valory finished, a dark set to his brow.

Conrad considered Valory’s words. “That is the worry that so many have. The few Seers in my court talk of a spreading shadow. It is powerful. It moves against us. Perhaps it has sought and won Dramor’s alliance. If that is the case, I am well out of my depth here. My Liege I would turn to you, but . . . it seems as though you are at a loss as well. I hate to say this, knowing you as I do, but I imagine that the only recourse would be for you to return to Armathia.”

“Your recommendation?” Valory asked.

“As your future Steward,” Conrad confirmed. “I have sent dispatches to Armathia as I always do, to inform our respective fathers of the situation in the isles. The last dispatches were sent to sea on a ship that has yet to check in at its first port of call.”

“How late is it?” Valory asked.

“Two weeks.”

Valory whistled. “Either they’ve been waylaid, or they’ve met with misfortune.”

Conrad shook his head. “There were good men aboard that vessel – excellent sailors. A hurricane has not come our way this season, despite the rotten weather we’ve been having lately. They would not have met their end from so small a thing.”

“Life at sea can be precarious,” Valory reminded him, not willing to put words to all they were thinking.

“Or it could be the pirate vessels,” Imran said bluntly, sparing his commander the chore of making the suggestion himself.

“Or these creatures we’ve been hearing about,” Gabriel added.

“You make it sound as though Fángon himself has turned on us,” Imran said.

“This has naught to do with the _Ship of Lost Souls_ ,” Valory shook his head. All men present touched their brows at the mention of the vessel.

“Except to drag the bastards responsible for this darkness down to the locker,” Little spat.

“All talk of the afterlife aside, gentlemen, Conrad has given us some food for thought. I tend to think his advice wise, and have a mind to honor it. Shall we make for Armathia?” Valory asked, looking at each of his men in turn.

“And get there how? In hurricane season with a flooded overland route? It would be madness to take the desert passage. Do you suggest we travel by ship?” Imran asked.

“It might be the only way,” Conrad conceded. “If that is what you decide to do, you ought to go by way of the isles.”

“The isles are not exactly on our way,” Little frowned.

“Yet the isles will have newer, fresher news of the situation at hand than I do,” Conrad argued. “If things on our eastern border are as tenuous as they are on our western, the isles will require aid. Even though you might not be able to bring it, you can at least bring their news directly back to Armathia.”

“It is a long and dangerous undertaking in this season,” Valory said quietly. “If we went due north we could make it across the gulf in a scant two weeks. If we head east to Lyre and plan on stopping at each of Oceana’s isles on the way . . . the journey might last two months. Can our news truly wait that long?”

“I could have your dispatches forwarded,” Conrad offered. “I had been debating on whether or not to send a ship directly to Armathia with news. This would solidify my decision.”

“You feel very strongly about this.”

“Call it a hunch,” Conrad shrugged.

“And you could provide us with a ship and a crew?” Valory asked. Imran groaned aloud, tipping his dark head backwards in misery.

“You and sea-witches,” Gabe whispered, shaking his head. Imran kicked him under the table.

“The costs I could front out of Anaphe’s treasury. Knowing you as I do, my Lord, I assume you want to avoid traveling with the navy, but there are several seasoned and loyal mercenary captains taking shelter in the harbor.”

Valory sighed. “Very well, then. We’ll sail for Lyre as soon as possible.”

“You’ll not stay for the holiday, my Lord? We’re to have a fine celebration on Ranael’s Day,” Conrad said.

“We appreciate your offer, but the sooner we head out, the better. We should hasten to cast off while the weather permits.” Across the table, Imran groaned again. “Best spend your morning rummaging through the market for some ginger, Imran. I imagine you’ll need it.”

Little clapped Imran on the back. “Else a spare boot, so when you see each meal a second time you have somewhere to put it!”

Imran tapped the ashes of his pipe into an empty goblet, narrowing his eyes. “I am a desert dweller by nature. I have no stomach for the sea – and yes, Gabriel, before you say it again: I absolutely loathe sea-witches, awful creatures that they are.”

Valory let out a startled laugh. “I doubt we’ll see any on the journey. They rarely show their faces.”

With a humph, Imran stood. “So you claim, sir. If we’ve come to a decision . . . ?”

“Yes, yes. You’re free to go. And you as well, Gabe and Little. Conrad and I have some things to discuss.”

The three soldiers stood and took their leave, bowing respectfully toward Conrad before saluting Valory and making their exit. Imran’s under-the-breath muttering could be heard until he was halfway down the hall.

…

Fiona bar Conrad di Oceana slipped into the shadows just in time to avoid being caught listening by Prince Valory’s men. As soon as the muttering Dramorian was out of sight, she crept back towards the door to the dining hall, intent on gleaning as much information about the shadow spreading from the south as she possibly could. Determination lined her features as she pressed her ear against the door. Her father was a brilliant politician and a good man, but he would need help soon. Fiona was no Seer, but some things could be divined without the use of an enchantment.

Anaphe was surrounded by enemies on all sides. Fiona had always known this, of course: it would be so simple for men from the Western Territories to cross over the mountains and move towards their peninsula. Of course, the Westernese were a sea going people as well. They were rare guests in the isles, and when they visited it was always to trade, but such arrangements were open to change. They were, after all, but one of the disorganized clans that paid tribute to Dramor.

Fiona knew these things because she always kept her ears open. She paid attention to what her father said in passing. She eavesdropped shamelessly on his private meetings. She borrowed books from the library that would have made her etiquette tutor’s hair stand on end. Fiona was well aware that it wasn’t technically her place to groom herself to succeed her father as viceroy of Anaphe, but she felt compelled to anyway. _Illen, forgive my presumption_ , she thought. _But Illen, oh – perhaps it is you who guides my intuition and tells me that one day, such steps will have been necessary._ Fiona hoped very much that her foray into the world of men’s politics was borne out of need and not out of simple vanity, boredom, or displeasure with her lot in life.

A hand on her shoulder startled her. She jumped nearly a foot in the air, bumping her head against the doorframe in the process. Whirling around and raising her hands to ward off her attacker, she was both relieved and annoyed when a familiar smiling face came into view.

“Dropping eaves again?” Malcolm asked, hip cocked against the door jamb.

“You almost scared the skin off of me,” Fiona whispered. She silently berated herself: she should have felt his enchantment when he first approached. Neither of them was particularly strong, but she would have noticed his presence had she not been distracted.

“Apologies. Hear anything interesting?”

If tables were turned and someone else was, for once, eavesdropping on Lady Fiona, they would have been surprised to find her conversing with the Captain of the City Guard with such informality. Army men – even those of high rank – were low born, after all: a man of breeding would have made knighthood by his age. Despite that, Malcolm bar Orin wore his uniform with all of the pride and gravity that befitted his station. He was an exceptional soldier, and Fiona would not be the first to bemoan his humble origins – though perhaps for unique reasons.

“Our desert border is being tested as well, it seems,” Fiona murmured.

Malcolm frowned. “That does not bode well for us. We are in a disadvantaged position as it is: we do not have enough men to survive a full-scale attack from either side.”

“You think war looms so closely on the horizon that we would not have enough time to get reinforcements from the capital?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know,” Malcolm sighed. “The situation at sea is dire these days. A few of my men are so terrified of returning to the isles that they would rather resign their commissions dishonorably than ship out again. We’re terribly shorthanded.”

“I imagine the idea of doing a press on the docks isn’t appealing to you.”

“Not here, at least. With all of the Dramorian blood in this territory, the average Anaphean citizen does not an excellent sailor make. I fear that sending out the press gangs would create more problems than they would solve – and make your father an incredibly unpopular man.”

“We couldn’t have that; the peace here is so hard-won.”

“He has done a brilliant job thus far. He has enough reasons to hate me without news of a press adding to the problem,” he replied.

“Shush,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “He has no reason to hate you. In faith, he has no idea.”

“He must suspect,” Malcolm countered. “Your father is no dithering politician – he sees far, for all his lack of an enchantment.”

“Believe me – he would have said something by now,” Fiona replied.

Malcolm sighed, snagging one of Fiona’s sun-brown hands with his darker one. “You know it pains me to say this, but perhaps it would be better if there were nothing for him to know.”

Fiona shook her head violently, eyes wide. “Stop that. No. Malcolm – no.” She tugged her hand from his grasp and stepped forward, placing her palms flat on the leather breastplate stamped with the King’s insignia: sunrise over sea.

Malcolm looked down at the viceroy’s pretty young daughter and let out a long sigh, giving in to his desire to fit his arms about her slender waist. “One day you will marry a wealthy nobleman and forget all about me,” he said, aiming for a jest and missing.

She felt a faint wave of _regret, sadness, yearning_ come off of him, courtesy of her enchantment. “Never,” she whispered. “Not if I can help it.”

“I cannot ask for your hand.”

“Perhaps some day—”

“The law will change? We’ll be granted a royal pardon?” Malcolm asked. The bitterness in his voice was palpable.

“Stop,” she said. “My father has had no time yet to entertain talk of suitors, you know that. Besides, with my . . .” she faltered. “With my mother’s passing, I don’t think he is in a rush to be rid of my sisters and me. There is time yet to make our plan.”

“But your time will come,” Malcolm said, voice pained.

“Then I will refuse every offer that comes my way.”

“Fiona—”

“You know I would. You know I would do that for you.” She pulled his head down towards hers. Malcolm rested their foreheads together for a moment before capturing her lips with his. She sighed, leaning into the kiss happily.

He tasted the richness of honeyed desert cakes on her lips, savoring the sweetness for a few long moments before pulling back and willing himself to be strong. Fiona made a noise of displeasure, grey-green eyes peering up at him expectantly. Malcolm shook his head. “If we continue like this, I will make a dishonest woman of you,” he said. “I couldn’t bear that.”

Fiona sighed, exasperated. “We cannot have it both ways. We either resign ourselves to a public life apart, or a secret life together. I know which one I prefer, don’t you?”

“Fiona—”

“Hush. Come. Walk in the garden with me a while, won’t you? I suspect I’m not going to get any more eavesdropping done tonight. Besides, my father seems ready to speak of personal matters with the Prince. Those, I have no business overhearing.”

“Fiona,” he implored.

“Please Captain,” she said, eyes sparkling with mirth, “I have no devious designs upon you, your person, or my so-called honor this night. I simply wish to spend some time walking arm in arm with the dashingly handsome Captain of the City Guard. Will you indulge me?”

Malcolm rewarded her with a soft, loving smile. “If that is your wish my Lady, I can hardly say no to you – a fact of which you are quite clearly aware.”

Fiona slipped her arm through Malcolm’s proffered one and they strolled slowly towards the garden, speaking no more of politics or duty that night.

…

“Tell me Valory, what’s your news?” Conrad asked, dropping all pretenses of formality once the soldiers had left the room.

Valory shrugged. “Not so very much. We’ve been in the Borderlands for ages, now. “

“You haven’t been here in nearly two years,” Conrad nodded.

“It has been even longer since I last saw Armathia.”

“Any news from Verne and my father? I know you receive dispatches, even if you haven’t had the opportunity to see them with your own eyes.”

“Lord Miran has been taking on more work ever since my father’s condition began its decline. He and Verne have been readying Siath to take up the throne once my father steps down, or is deemed unfit to rule. I . . .” he sighed. “I confess I’ve been avoiding Armathia on account of my father’s illness. It’s painful to see him brought so low.”

“Might you not be summoned soon, if that’s the case?” Conrad asked.

Valory sighed. “It’s likely, though I wouldn’t be ordained as Regent until my brother’s coronation.”

“How is Siath handling all of this?”

“It’s trying for him, I think. He’s nearly seventy, you know.”

Conrad huffed. “Seventy perhaps, but I would wager that he and I look of an age.”

Valory shrugged. “Enchantments.”

“You don’t speak much of yours, do you?”

“I avoid the subject if possible.”

Valory was not alone in that; enchantments were a personal matter, and it was only Conrad’s station that allowed him to pry. Having never been particularly close to the Prince, friendship alone would not have been grounds for inquiry.

“Still finding that most enchantments are dissonant to yours, or has that mellowed with time?” he asked.

“Most are dissonant or neutral,” Valory admitted. “It has been something of a relief to spend so much time in the Borderlands where the blood is mixed and enchantments are rarer.”

“Is it so terrible to be in the city?”

“Terrible? No. Distracting, stifling . . . at times, yes. Your daughter listened in on most of our conversation, did you know that? I could feel her just on the other side of the door, like someone was pressing against my teeth.”

His statement bewildered Conrad. “Fiona? Your teeth?”

“She has an enchantment, does she not? Empathy, if I remember. I feel her signature in my teeth,” Valory shrugged.

“Odd, that,” Conrad murmured.

“So it goes. I hate to sound ungrateful for having such a strong gift, but when I do not outright need to use it, it can be a bother.”

“Your brother never seemed to suffer the same issue,” Conrad pointed out.

“My brother and I suspect that I’m the stronger between the two of us. I do look ten years his junior even though the gap between us is small. Still, he is a very powerful Seer. I suppose I was just the unlucky one.”

“Unlucky, to look like a man in his thirties when you’re nearing your seventh decade?”

“I will see many people I love cross the sea with Illen ere I go to meet them,” Valory reminded him, face clouding. “I already have.”

Conrad was quiet for a moment, contemplating – not for the first time – how an enchantment like Valory’s could be a blessing as well as a curse. “Yet your betrothed has an enchantment as well, though, does she not?” he asked.

The grim set to Valory’s features was unmistakable. “She’s an Elementalist. A firestarter.”

“I had heard a rumor that her power was inconsequential,” Conrad said, “though she’s young still. It may yet develop.”

Valory shook his head. “I doubt she’ll groom herself for more than parlor tricks.”

“Strong words, coming from the man who is pledged to wed her,” Conrad raised a brow.

Valory let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “My betrothal to Duke Edmund’s daughter is naught but a political move. My father was frothing at the mouth to renew the bond between the noble classes of Anaphe and Armathia. She is a blood relation of the Dramorian viceroy my grandfather overthrew: a logical choice.”

“Do you suppose he sacrificed you instead of Siath out of fear of putting a woman with ties to Dramor on the throne?” Conrad asked.

“Absolutely,” Valory nodded. “What’s more, my father imagined that I would ultimately take up my post as Regent from within Anaphe. It’s why he sent you here in Edmund’s stead.”

“Dramor would stay away if you took up the post here with Lady Sybina at your side,” Conrad pointed out.

Valory’s shoulders slumped as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s what my father wanted.”

“And Siath?”

“Siath knows what is necessary.”

“Much of our lives are planned out for us, are they not?” Conrad asked. “Edmund may be somewhat of a sycophant, but I’ve heard rumors of his daughter’s beauty. You were in Armathia when Lady Sybina reached her majority, no?”

“I was home, yes. I suppose Edmund rather expected me to take her to the altar then and there.”

“Why didn’t you?” Conrad asked.

“She was but a slip of a girl, only just sixteen!” Valory said, horrified.

“More than one woman has been wedded and bedded before reaching sixteen, Valory. And surely the rumors of her beauty have not been exaggerated.”

Valory sighed. “They were not. She is lovely.”

“But?”

“Her enchantment buzzes in my ears like a gadfly.”

“That bad? Surely they would have known . . .” Conrad trailed off.

Valory shook his head. “I’ve been trothed to her since her birth. When her enchantment started to develop, the agreement between our fathers was already formalized. Besides, you know as well as I that most enchantments don’t reach maturation until the first decade has passed.”

“At the earliest,” Conrad nodded. “I’m sorry, Valory. That must be a trial for you.”

“It is what it is,” he sighed. “When my brother steps up to take the crown, I will marry. It is my duty. Though I will admit that the idea of being trapped in Anaphe with Sybina and her father is nauseating.”

Conrad snorted. “As you said before, duty is duty. Perhaps you will grow towards one another; I know my Thia and I did not get off to the best start.” He smiled wistfully. “She grew so very beautiful with time, and after she bore our three daughters . . . they say it’s folly to marry for love. I did not, but Illen knows I found it. It might do you some good to have a woman’s soft company, Valory. It can be a treasure. Besides, I imagine that you’re tiring of tavern women.”

Conrad noticed the odd light in the Prince’s eyes immediately. He thought back upon his words, wondering what it was he had said that had made Valory so uncomfortable, but couldn’t make sense of it. Valory fidgeted for a moment – something he _never_ did – and sighed, looking just past Conrad’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Surely you know by now that I . . .” he paused, looking so supremely uncomfortable that Conrad took pity on him.

“There’s nothing wrong with getting a bit of skirt now and then. You’re sixty-seven years old! Celibacy for that length of time is a tall order.”

“I’ve been far from celibate,” Valory murmured, “but it has been many, many years since I’ve sought company at a house of ill-repute.”

“Have I offended you?” Conrad asked.

“No,” Valory said, “but you might perhaps want to think about the contradiction inherent in those words.”

“You don’t have a lover, surely,” Conrad said, aghast. “I can’t imagine you would set yourself up for heartbreak in such a way.”

“I do not,” Valory confirmed.

“And surely you’re not so arrogant to think that diddling about in the higher classes wouldn’t ruin others’ esteem for you.”

“Surely not.”

Conrad thought for a moment, turning the puzzle over in his mind. Valory – handsome second son of the King though he was – had never had a mistress to his knowledge. Come to think of it, Conrad couldn’t remember a time before his marriage to Thia that Valory would consent to join him for a pub crawl. His solitary nature had been a great part of the reason why they had never become close.

Part of the difficulty had been Valory’s intolerance for the diplomatic arts. Even on the rare occasions when he returned home to Armathia, he still spent nearly all of his time in the garrison or sailing in the bay, else being cajoled into council meetings by his older brother. It was never made secret that Valory preferred the company of soldiers and sailors to the simpering councilmen who always sought to ingratiate themselves to the future Regent through exaggerated flattery.

At that thought, Conrad sat bolt upright in his seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve been keeping such a secret all this time.”

Valory’s mouth drew into a thin line. “I was hardly keeping it secret. There are simply some things that others fail to see because they don’t want to.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“You asked,” he shrugged. At Conrad’s exasperated grunt, he elaborated, “We have discussed this, to an extent. My father is ill. Siath will soon take up the throne. When he does, I will be sent to Anaphe. Why speak now? Perhaps because it might behoove me to tell my Steward such things. To be honest, though, I had thought you already knew.”

“Well my Lord, you know what they say about assumptions. Does my brother know?” Conrad asked.

“Verne? No; he’d be a right pain if he did. Really Conrad, you must know that I would have said something before now, but I thought you had worked it out yourself.”

Conrad shook his head slowly. “I would never have guessed. You’re hardly effete, and you stay well away from the molly houses.”

“Some soldiers simply prefer the company of other soldiers.”

“I know it’s not uncommon. More prevalent in the military though, isn’t it?”

“A solider bound to his fellow soldier, or a sailor bound to his fellow sailor? I have seen it some,” Valory admitted. “I’ve not yet seen it amongst men of our caste – not even in the isles, at that.”

“Yet I’ve known a few who have taken male lovers after marriage has given them heirs,” Conrad pointed out. “At least, I heard tell of it in Armathia. Surely you know how such things are thought of in Dramor. I’m afraid that there is no small predilection towards Dramorian sensibilities on this peninsula.”

“I know,” Valory said wryly. “Imran and I had a bit of a rocky start.”

“You and the Dramorian . . .?”

“No, no,” Valory laughed. “His upbringing taught him that men such as I are weak and vile. I suppose it was a bit of a shock to him to find out that his respected commander and future Regent is of that persuasion.”

Conrad tried to smile, but the worry was clear in his eyes. “One of your other men?”

“No,” Valory said. “They know my preferences, as such matters are impossible to hide when one travels for years upon years with the same loyal cohort. They do not share my preferences, and so they do not involve themselves with my business so long as I don’t involve myself with theirs.”

“Well enough for now. I worry for the future, though,” Conrad admitted.

“More counsel?” Valory asked.

“Indeed. We have spoken much of duty tonight, and the extent to which yours binds you. It pains me to say this, but when you arrive with the Lady Sybina at your side . . . if you are not discreet with your dalliances, the word will be that you have dishonored her. For the King’s son to dishonor an Anaphean bride . . .”

“Especially with another man, a practice that was a hanging offense here within living memory,” Valory completed. “I know. I’ll have to be cautious. I could find company, perhaps, but not a lover.”

“It could alienate the Anaphean nobles, stir up unrest in the court.”

“Undermining all of the work that we would be here to do, yes. How ironic, that my father would send me to the one place where my predilections could cause uproar,” Valory said with a bitter smile.

“Did he know?” Conrad asked. “Is this _punishment_?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter? It is what it is. Either way, I do not expect for the bonds of love and attraction to flourish between Lady Sybina and I with time. They could not. My preference is exclusive, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Conrad murmured.

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Valory sighed. “We all have our burdens to bear.”

Conrad started. “It makes me think of my brother, when you say that.”

“Verne?”

“No.”

Valory’s stare sharpened. “Arden?”

Conrad nodded. “He has been much on my mind as of late. It was the last thing he said to me before he disappeared – that we all had our burdens to bear. I wonder what his was, and why he thought it so heavy that he had to flee.”

“He was a melancholy young man,” Valory recalled.

“Yet with such potential.”

“He was brilliant,” Valory nodded, remembering well the familiar sight of Miran’s youngest son bent over dense theoretical tomes in the palace library.

“You’d have told me if you had news of him, I suppose.”

“Immediately, in fact,” Valory agreed. “I haven’t heard anything in years.”

“How long has it been now, more than twenty?” Conrad asked.

“More than twenty.”

“Verne insists he’s still out there somewhere.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that anymore.”

Valory looked away, finding it difficult to witness such pain. “Hope can be a dangerous thing,” he finally agreed.

With that, Conrad’s melancholy deepened. He stood. “I think I must take my leave of you now, Valory. It has been a long night, and truthfully . . .” he sighed. “I need some time to think on what we’ve said. I will see you on the morrow with news of a ship and crew for you. Forgive me for not sitting with you longer.”

“No,” Valory shook his head, “forgive me for turning our conversation to such melancholy topics.”

“Goodnight, my Lord,” Conrad said, standing and clasping arms with Valory before sweeping from the room.

Valory remained for some time longer, lost in thought, turning his glass over in his hands.

…

Although the holiday wasn’t for another two days, the tavern was crowded with sailors – both navy and merchant – eager to get a head start on the celebrations. When it came to Ranael, sailors were always happy to draw out the festivities. On that particular eve the crew of the _Windjammer_ had extra incentive to celebrate: it was the anniversary of their First Officer’s birth.

Jack, fairly well known throughout Oceana’s major ports, spent the better part of the evening knocking back drinks he hadn’t paid for and fielding the well-wishes of all and sundry. He set up camp with a few of his crew in the corner of the tavern, feeling pleasantly buzzed. All in all, it wasn’t the worst way to celebrate one’s birth.

“Happy day!” The words were said in a clipped Ithakan accent as another one of his crew approached the table.

Jack raised his mug at the offered toast. “Thank you, Niko.”

The Ithakan dropped into the seat next to him. “Is this really your day, then?”

“You ask me that every year. Yes, I was born this day.”

“And you always reply as though it’s hard to understand why I might think a man who goes by a false name might use a false day,” Niko pointed out.

“I’m not one for self-celebration, but it would dishonor my mother to let the day go unmarked.”

“But letting us call you ‘Jack’ doesn’t?”

“No,” Jack said, a hint of sadness lining his features. “That’d be a mark against my father instead.”

“A mark against your father.” Niko repeated, making a face. “It’s nigh on impossible to get anything out of you, you know. I’m sure we’re only getting this much because you’ve been tucking away pints since mid-afternoon.”

“The tale isn’t worth telling. That part of my life is done with; does it matter what I was called as a boy?” Jack asked, swirling the liquid around in his mug.

“It’s a matter of blood,” Niko insisted. “Was your Da such a wretch that you can’t even name him, not even to call him a bastard, if that’s what he rightly deserves?”

“Blood,” Jack mused, “yes: and you’d think differently of me if you knew what ran in my veins.”

“Right.” Niko rolled his eyes. “Half of us come from scoundrels, Jack; we all took to the sea to make up for having no inheritance. What, was your Da a criminal? A turncoat? Did he hit your Ma? Looking at you I know you’ve got no Dramorian in you. What else is there to feel ashamed of?”

Jack’s lips thinned as he stared down at his pint. Niko’s offer was tempting. He grew tired of the alias, the assumed identity, the self-censorship that came with acting as though he had sprung fully-formed from the sea the day he joined _Windjammer_ ’s crew. It would be a great relief to finally confide in his men; they were his chosen family, and the strain of a constructed past had weighed upon him of late. Despite his desire to speak plainly – and how easy Niko attempted to make the confession – he still couldn’t bring himself to begin the tale.

Knowing his true name would irrevocably change the way his men saw him. Perhaps those little changes wouldn’t matter. Then again, perhaps they would, and the dynamic on board _Windjammer_ would turn for the worst. He couldn’t claim, after all, that he was proud of the circumstances that had led him to the isles those long years ago. He longed to speak the truth, but so many years of falsehood were hard to undo.

Niko continued to stare at him, expectant, hoping that the long-awaited story would finally be pried from his lips. Jack scrambled for words. _One of these days, perhaps even someday soon, one of the lads will ask and it will all tumble out_. He was saved the trouble of deflecting Niko’s curiosity by the approach of an Anaphean sailor, who slid into a chair across from them. He was a new acquaintance of theirs, made in the lull that the change of season provided.

_I’ll tell them one of these days. Not today._

“Rumor has it we’ve another reason to celebrate this evening. How many years have you, lad?” the man asked.

“More than you, I imagine,” Jack said, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. He had long since stopped reacting when his peers referred to him in the diminutive.

“No way you’re a day over thirty. I doubt it’s even that much.”

Jack and Niko exchanged amused glances. “Would you see fit to wager on that?”

The sailor grinned, gesturing towards the bar. “A drink if you’re my elder; and one for me if you’re not.”

“A fair wager. Pick any of my crew and ask how many seasons I’ve seen. We’ll see who buys the round.” Jack took another swig of his pint.

The sailor leaned back in his chair. “Oi, Jonah!”

The fiddler in the center of the room paused in the midst of tuning his instrument. “A request?” he asked, squinting over their way.

“How old is yer Mate?”

“He’s an old boy,” Jonah called, “forty-four today.”

The sailor gaped. “You’re having me on.”

Jack jiggled the talisman that hung about his neck. “You Anapheans always forget about the power of enchantments,” he said, smug. “Ask any other. Ask my Captain, even. They’ll all give you the same answer.”

The sailor sighed, shaking his head. “Not too many talents like yours in this province, to be sure. Well, a wager’s a wager – what’s your poison?”

“Another pint for me.”

The sailor stood, grumbling good naturedly all the way back to the bar. Niko watched his progress for a moment before turning back to his Mate. “What, no rum?” he asked.

“With all the celebration coming up, it wouldn’t do to get too deep in my cups our first night out. Besides, I have a feeling something’s going to come up tomorrow.”

Niko spared a glance at Jack’s talisman, the one that marked him as a Seer. His hunches, though few and far between, were almost always accurate. “Think we’ll be seeing some action soon? We could use the money.”

“Let’s hope. Between the advent of the Season of Storms and the reports of pirate vessels, we’ll be lucky if anyone wants to travel the isles before Erád,” Jack sighed.

“We have to get out of Anaphe,” Niko groused. “The Dramorian leftovers here give me the shivers.”

“If it comes to that, I’m sure Callum would prefer we wintered over in Kilcoran.”

“And have nary a Royal to spend during the holidays.”

“I rather think that if the situation in the isles becomes that dire, it’ll be the navy buying our commission to help battle the pirates or the creatures – or both.”

“And wouldn’t that be something?” Niko asked, eyes lighting up at the idea.

Jack’s mouth twisted. “It would, though I’d avoid it all the same.”

“Oh come on, Jack – battle with _pirates_. There’s no greater thrill to be had on Ranael’s blue waters.”

“I’ve seen battle make corpses out of too many friends to share that opinion,” Jack replied, grey-green eyes sad.

Niko was spared the need to reply by the approach of their Captain, a rolled up sheaf of paper in one hand and a worried set to his brow. “Jack, how many have you had?”

Jack raised a brow. “A few. What’s happened?”

“We might have a commission – some high ranking military commander or another wants to take a turn through the isles.” Callum dropped into the other unoccupied seat at the table.

“Who?” Jack asked.

“Someone important – he’s taking a page from your book and traveling without a name,” Callum said.

“Is that what has you worried?”

“It’s not that, lad; the terms of the commission are fairly typical, after all.” He tapped the rolled up sheaf against the table. “I’m worried because it sounds as though the man is of no mean rank, and he intends to meet with us and inspect _Windjammer_ midmorning.”

Niko nearly choked on his rum. “Sir?”

Jack let out a snort of laughter. “I wager it’s a bit late to prevent any of us from waking with bottle ache. I’ll rise early and take care of the vessel. We can let the men have a lie-in, so long as they’re presentable when our patron comes aboard, can we not?”

“Alright. Yes, Jack – that’ll be just the thing. Surely the man must know it’s a holiday. Sorry for cutting the celebration of your day so short.”

Jack shook his head. “Not at all, Cap.” He meant it. He had told Niko that he had a feeling something was going to come up, but he hadn’t let on that he’d been filled with a sense of anticipation for several days. Whoever their patron was, he was bringing them something worthwhile. If that meant turning in early to ensure that _Windjammer_ was in showing shape, then so be it.

As if on cue, the Anaphean sailor returned with Jack’s promised pint. At Callum’s narrow-eyed look, Jack put on a winning smile. “My last one, Cap – then I’ll try to hustle the men back to the slip and let them continue their revelry there.”

“Thank you, lad. Now for spoiling for your fun, the least I can do is raise a glass in your name. Happy day.”

“To winning this commission, and a successful tour around the isles,” Jack added, clanking their mugs together. He was already looking forward to what the next day would bring.

…

Conrad pulled the collar of his blue linen tunic up, protecting his neck from the strong midmorning sun. An early meeting with his councilors had gone well, leaving him with enough time to take a cup of coffee on his favorite balcony. From the third story he had a perfect view of the gardens below. He could hear Captain Malcolm drilling his men at the fort in the distance, and beyond that, the sound of waves crashing upon the bluffs. He would have been at peace were it not for the sudden arrival and departure of his Prince.

As Conrad sipped at his coffee, he pondered the news that Valory had brought him the previous evening. Unrest at the Borderlands didn’t bode well for the Anaphean court, and he found himself wishing that the future Regent weren’t so eager to leave the city and head for sea. He sighed. As he had told Valory the night before, Dramorian traditions and inclinations still had a strong presence in Anaphe. Conrad was yet uncertain where the loyalty of many of his subjects lay. Valory’s presence would help a great deal with that – both to expose the true feelings of many a councilmember, and to act as a firmer reminder that Anaphe was an Oceanic city, and had been for centuries before the border wars.

As if summoned, Valory himself emerged into the courtyard, deep in conversation with one of his men. The neat vestments of the night before had been again replaced by unmarked clothing more suited for travel – supple boots, light cloth breeches, a linen shirt and vest. He was broad but not big, honey-dark save for a pair of incongruously bright eyes. His wild, near-black hair hung loose about his shoulders, covering up the scar that sliced through his right brow. Conrad frowned. He had never managed to gather the full story of the scar from Valory, though he suspected it was of no mundane origin.

The Dramorian – Imran – walked beside him, smaller and lither than his commander. Conrad spared a moment of thought for the former double agent of Dramor. His loyalty to Valory and Oceana was indisputable, but Conrad had always felt uneasy around him. Perhaps it was the man’s easy friendship with Valory that unsettled him so: particularly now. It certainly would not do for Valory to take a Dramorian lover.

Imran gestured gracefully, hands attempting to illustrate a point. His long, locker-black hair was gathered up in a queue high above his head, then fell, braided, halfway down his back. His features were pale and sharp, revealing his ancestry. As a true desert-dweller, Arrar’s Blessing had left his skin immune to the rays of the sun. Conrad watched as the Dramorian spun about, saying something that smacked of his usual insubordination. No, hadn’t Valory said that his men didn’t share his choice in lovers? That did little to ease his worries.

They were nearly ready to leave. Conrad had given them news of a fine ship that was ready to sail at a moment’s notice. If Valory was so grieved by the idea of staying in Anaphe, then heading towards the beleaguered isles with all due haste was the only other option. They were not tarrying, but instead seemed to be making final arrangements, discussing options amongst themselves, and provisioning.

The final two members of Valory’s company stepped into the courtyard – Little, who stood nearly a half a head above his commander, and the soft-spoken Gabriel. Conrad sighed. Gabriel reminded Conrad of Arden as a youth. If it weren’t for Gabriel’s enchantment and skill with a broadsword, he would have wagered that the two would have gotten along well. Conrad shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought. He seemed to think of Arden more and more as time passed, contrary to all of the words he had been told about grief – though that was doubly true this time of year. Verne’s letters were replete with leads and hypotheses regarding their brother’s whereabouts, however, so Conrad wondered whether he had ever truly been given a chance to imagine his brother at rest.

Little, big blonde head thrown back with laughter, was clapping a scowling Imran on the shoulder. Conrad could hear the good-natured taunting about finding ginger and a boot all the way from the third story. Standing next to one another as they were, Little and Gabriel looked comically dissimilar; while Little was built large and northern-fair, Gabriel was birch-tree lean and maple-dark. Little’s antics had put a small smile on his lips, making his face look even more boyish. If Conrad hadn’t heard tell of his conquests in battle, he never would have believed the boy capable of killing. Nor would he have thought that the ‘boy’ was thirty.

Valory turned suddenly, looking up towards the palace. He must have finally felt a pair of eyes on him – an instinct honed from years upon years of traveling in hostile territory. Conrad smiled wryly and gave a wave in response to Valory’s stare. After a moment Valory beckoned him down. Conrad moved to comply, forsaking his cup of coffee and heading down the wide stone steps that wound into the gardens.

As he swept off of the last of the stone steps, Valory moved to greet him. As they clasped arms, Conrad noted that Valory had replaced his worn leather vambraces beneath the linen of his shirt. Over his shoulder, Conrad could see the respectful bows of Valory’s men.

“From the frenzy of preparations, I imagine that news of _Windjammer_ and her Captain has reached you and met your approval,” Conrad surmised.

“Your efficiency in finding her was impressive,” Valory replied, “though we will want to interview with Captain and crew before making any agreements.”

“Of course,” Conrad nodded. “I assume you plan on departing this afternoon?”

“Immediately, in fact. We’ve just finished provisioning. Your generosity in those matters is appreciated as well.”

“I would hardly send my Lord away without,” Conrad reminded him. “You won’t stay to take the afternoon meal with me?”

Valory shook his head. “While your offer is appreciated, I think we both know that we will fall to talking, and I would rather make our approach of Anaphe’s docks in full daylight. Besides, your man told us that _Windjammer_ would be ready to sail on tomorrow’s tide. I should hardly like to give them notice of their commission so late at night.”

Conrad bowed his head. “I only wish your stay could have been longer. Next time, perhaps?”

Valory looked at Conrad searchingly for a long moment. Lowering his voice, he admitted, “I would have thought that our discussion last night had changed your opinion of me.”

“What would ever have made you think that?”

Valory sighed. “Siath aside, I’ve met few men in our caste who did not think such inclinations a base pursuit.”

“It’s a complication, yes. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you. Worry, however, is a far cry from disgust. You still have my unswerving loyalty.”

“Thank you,” Valory breathed. “I promise you that when I am sent to Anaphe, we will not have to speak of this again.”

A pained look crossed Conrad’s amiable features. “That is not what I would wish, either. I am no proponent of the ideals of Dramor.”

“Yet politics is politics, and now is not the time to tangle with the ethics of the Anaphean nobility,” Valory shook his head. “It is good to have an ally in this, though.”

“I will be your Steward, my Lord. You will always have an ally here,” Conrad said. “Now do not tarry more for my sake – I know you must away. Safe travels to all of you. Gentlemen, take good care of your commander.”

“We wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” Little responded, bowing his big head in a show of respect.

“Then may the wind be ever at your back, gentlemen,” Conrad responded, traditional Oceanic words of parting.

“And at yours.”

The men turned to depart, not wanting to prolong their journey any longer. Just before they passed from the courtyard, however, Conrad called out again.

“Lieutenant Imran.”

The Dramorian turned gracefully, braid and loose tunic whirling around him. “My Lord?” he inquired.

“Give the sea-witches my regards.”

Imran appeared stunned for a moment before, much to Conrad’s surprise, letting out a sharp laugh. He saluted Conrad before turning and passing Valory on his way out of the courtyard.

“You could do worse in choice of Stewards, sir,” he quipped, braid swinging behind him as he disappeared through the archway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> There are accents in this story; they're not gratuitous -- they indicate syllabic emphasis (same as in the Spanish language, for all of you hispanohablantes out there). The names of the months all have them to avoid word confusion, explanation below.
> 
> Here follows a little note about climate and seasons in the Eastern World:
> 
> The Eastern World behaves much like a continental landmass in the northern hemisphere. The compass rose on the map shows that the world is flipped on its side; because most of this story is about Oceana, the map is Oceana-centric (sort of like Europeans did to the world map we’re all familiar with today). The equator runs east-west; it’s south of Lyre.
> 
> Most of the Western territories are either tropical rainforest or savannah. It’s incredibly hot on the Anaphean peninsula as well; think Caribbean islands / Central America. Oceana and its islands follow the Caribbean cycle of seasons (or as Val jokes at one point, “hot, hotter, wet, and almost bearable”). Spring is hot. Summer is hellish (90s Fahrenheit at night). The fall is the worst of rain/hurricane season, in which it pours on and off for two straight months. Winter is quite pleasant, with nighttime temperatures dropping into the low 70s Fahrenheit at the water (colder in Armathia; probably down to the high 40s low 50s).
> 
> You’ll notice also that the tectonic plates are converging right down the middle of the map, creating a massive mountain range. There may or may not be earthquakes there as well. Oceana is a bit like the eastern seaboard of the US and is spared the majority of earthquakes (no fault lines), but it would get slammed with hurricanes every now and again.  
> The border between Oceana / Dramor is mostly savannah and desert. Dramor is desert, steppe, mountain. I picture it being a bit like Mongolia. By the time you stretch northward to Armathia, the climate is more like the continental US. It’s extremely hot in the summertime, but the winter daytime temperatures can drop into the low 50s Fahrenheit. Draped across the border between Oceana and Saria is a long stretch of swampland a bit like the Florida everglades. It would have been incredibly difficult (and dangerous) for the Eastern people to travel within its borders.
> 
> Saria’s climate, then, is a lot like the US east of the Appalachian mountains. Oldred would be level with New York or Boston (but landlocked), so we’re looking at bitterly cold winters with lots of snow, and warm (occasionally quite hot) summers. Saria stretches farther north than the map shows; the climate will get colder and colder from there until the land becomes effectively hospitable.
> 
> There’s a big white splotch on the map marked ‘uncharted/unknown territory’. Geology says it would have a Mediterranean climate, and would therefore almost definitely be inhabited. Who lives there? I have no idea. Maybe it will become relevant someday, and we’ll all find out together.


	3. Chapter 3

_The Season of Heat  
Fanán the 30; 2421_

“Now _there’s_ a talent,” Little said as they entered the small tavern. “Almost as bad as yours, Valory.”

Valory paused at the threshold. Little was right: someone within possessed an enchantment of some power.

“Should we arrange for a different location?” Imran wondered.

“No,” Valory said, surprising his men. “For once it would seem I’ve found some harmony with another’s signature.” He was understating things, but saw no harm in that. A pleasant yet somehow familiar warmth settled in his breast. It was rare to find an enchantment so complimentary – especially for him. He planned on enjoying the experience.

“Good tidings,” Little grinned, clapping Valory on the shoulder.

“There,” Gabriel put in, indicating a table in the corner. “That must be _Windjammer_ ’s Captain.”

Two men sat at the table, both nursing pints of ale. The older of the two was wrapped in the traditional linen dress of Kilcoran; the other sported far simpler garb. The Captain looked up and stood as the party approached.

“Captain Callum bar Samuel di Oceana at your service sirs,” said the Kilcoranian, bowing his head.

“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice. Rumor has it you’re the best,” Valory said, clasping forearms with the man in a brief greeting.

“Rumor isn’t wrong,” the old salt said, laughter in his eyes. “Rumor also has it you’re seeking passage to Armathia by way of the isles.”

“Wrong time of year for it,” Valory acknowledged, “but to Armathia we must.”

“Then I’m your man, and _Windjammer_ is your vessel,” the Captain said. He took a moment to regard each of the four men in turn. “I’ve been told not to expect a proper introduction, at least not right away, so I’ll admit to being out of my depth here,” he shrugged.

“It’s a rare thing, but necessary,” Gabriel put in. “I am called Gabe. Here is Little, and to my right, Lieutenant Imran. You can call our commander ‘sir’.” The men clasped arms all around.

“Well then ‘sir’, I’ll present you to my First Officer, another man of many names who we simply call ‘Jack’ on account of his skill at nearly all trades. Jack?”

The First Mate put down the sheaf of papers he’d been studying – provisioning lists, by the looks of it – and stood. They were of a height, and Valory found himself sizing the man up; his powerful frame, his calloused hands, the set of his jaw. He stepped forward to clasp the man’s arm. Their eyes met, and they both froze.

 _Damn, he’s powerful_. This was the talent Valory had felt when he first entered the room. Reeling from the force of their enchantments meeting, it took him a moment to realize how strikingly familiar the man before him was. He had been thrown at first by the beaten-copper hair that dipped, sailor-short, into the man’s collar, but his eyes – a discerning grey-green – were unmistakable. Valory had stared into an identical pair mere hours earlier. The nose was a bit more prominent, perhaps, and the skin fairer, but the resemblance was uncanny. Besides, it had been decades, but Valory knew this man.

“Your family has been searching for you for years,” he whispered, not releasing their clasped forearms. He could feel the worn vambraces tucked beneath the man’s simple linen shirt, could trace the ridged edges of a sun stamped into leather. The look of shock, horror, and perhaps even shame had not left the sailor’s features. He was rooted to the ground where he stood.

“What’s this now?” the Captain asked, eyebrows high.

“Jack,” Valory tried, the name sounding wrong on his tongue. _No, not Jack_. “Arden,” he amended. They stared at one another for one more heartbeat before Jack – Arden – staggered back a step, bowing his head.

“My Lord,” he murmured, gaze fixed steadily on Valory’s boots.

“What is going on here?” the Captain tried again. Before Valory could speak, Little had stepped in and grabbed both of them by the collar. He guided them, quickly as he could, out the back of the inn and down a deserted side street. They couldn’t afford to make a scene in the middle of a tavern – not unless they wanted rumors of their planned journey all over the city by nightfall. They would have this out elsewhere.

By the time the rest had caught up to them, Valory and Arden were standing in the middle of the side street in silence, still staring at one another. Valory cursed under his breath. How could he not have known that Arden was alive, that he possessed such an intense enchantment, that he had been right under their noses all along? Valory snorted. No wonder no one had noticed him, hiding in plain sight as he was: despite being a mere year younger than Conrad, the man didn’t look a day over thirty, and bore only the faintest resemblance to his younger self.

“Will someone _please_ let me in on the source of this hubbub?” the Captain broke in.

Another moment passed in silence. Valory arched a brow. Arden nodded once, resigned.

“It is an honor,” Valory said, addressing his men, “to introduce you to Lord Arden bar Miran di Oceana, youngest son of the High Steward of Armathia.”

Little whistled. “Some title.” He too had realized that the man in front of them was the source of the enchantment, and shook his head in awe. Everyone knew the story of Miran’s ‘Lost Son’.

“Jack?” Callum was stunned.

Arden nodded again. “He speaks the truth, sir.”

“Then who are _you_ , that makes a Steward kneel?” Callum asked, turning to Valory.

Arden spared a glance towards Valory, who shrugged. The Captain had most likely already figured it out.

“Captain, sir – this is Prince Valory bar Adrianth of Armathia, brother to the Crown Prince Siath, future Regent of Oceana.”

“My Lord,” the Captain bowed.

“The formalities are unnecessary and, more to the point, indiscrete. You need not use the honorific,” Valory said.

“Of course, sir.” Callum corrected before turning back to his officer. “So, son of a Steward, eh?”

Arden’s gaze slid sideways. “I should have said something,” he murmured. “Illen knows I had the opportunity.”

Callum whistled through his teeth. “Laddie, your reasons for hiding are your own, haven’t I always said? Now if you’d turned out to be a Western spy or an agent of the sultan, that’d be a different matter. As I see it, you’ve brought no harm to myself or my vessel, although . . .” he shrugged. “A decade of calling you ‘Jack’ is going to be a trial to overcome.”

A shade of a smile crossed Arden’s features. “I’ll be hard-pressed to change so many years of habit, myself. I’ll probably answer to it for the rest of my days.”

“Jack it is, then.” Callum turned back to Valory. “My L—sir. While this reunion is unexpected, we do have some business to conduct. Unless . . .?” He glanced back towards Arden.

“I see no reason why this would deter us from commissioning your vessel. We would, however, like to meet with the rest of your officers and crew.”

“Well,” Callum shrugged, “Jack here is my only officer. _Windjammer_ ’s a schooner, sir, so she sails light handed and chases the wind. She’s a bit beamy – not as quick as some of the Armathian navy vessels I’ve seen in the Gulf.”

“I doubt I’ll find anything that displeases me,” Valory answered, peripherally aware that Arden was staring at him. He reached up to touch the scar on the side of his face, self-conscious, once he realized that the other man was fixated on it.

“Let’s hope not. Should we make for her dock slip?” Callum suggested.

“Let’s,” Valory nodded. Callum bowed and turned to lead the way through the winding alleys back towards the docks. The company followed in silence, shooting sidelong glances at Valory and Arden.

After a few steps, Valory noticed that he was still being watched. “You have seen my brother recently, my Lord?” Arden finally asked, voice pitched low but firm – so different from the strange, bookish youth Valory remembered.

“We took leave of Conrad this morning,” Valory replied, measuring the other’s reaction.

“He is well? I heard about Thia.”

“Much better, though still grieving, I think.”

“He still has not made his pledge to you,” Arden stated.

“No – there has been no need.”

“Yet,” Arden amended.

“Just so. He is not my Steward, but he has done much good for Anaphe. Your older brother is a brilliant politician.” Valory watched Arden’s shoulders stiffen, almost as though he were readying himself for cutting words that did not come.

“Verne and Conrad both,” Arden finally said.

“You are not a man of mean talents either,” Valory replied, sending a purposeful glance towards the talisman that hung about Arden’s neck, marking him as a Seer.

Arden’s mouth twisted as though he had tasted something bitter. “No, perhaps not. And neither are you, my Lord,” he acknowledged.

“Then you must know that your brothers have missed you. That Conrad and Verne ask if I have news of you every time I visit their courts.”

This, Arden seemed to find surprising. “I did not know.”

“It surprises you that they look for you?”

“I imagined they would have taken me for dead by now. It has been more than twenty years.”

“Verne is an Empath,” Valory reminded him.

“A minor one,” Arden corrected.

Valory shrugged. “Whether it was his enchantment or his refusal to give up hope, Verne had it in his head that you were out here somewhere, and his surety convinced Conrad.”

“Verne can be tenacious.” Arden smiled faintly, rubbing at his bearded chin. Valory was struck by the resemblance between the man and his late mother.

“You must have known they were searching. An enchantment like yours . . . you must be able to See a great deal.”

A shuttered look took Arden’s features. “No, in faith, I cannot. It pains me that they have grieved over my absence so. I had not thought they would. Had I known . . .”

“You could not See so simple a thing?” Valory found it beyond comprehension, considering the amount of information his own mother always managed to glean from her visions. He knew the signature of his mother’s enchantment very well. Arden was far stronger.

“My Lord, this might not be the most appropriate place for such a discussion.”

It was a transparent attempt at deflecting Valory’s questions. Valory knew what he was getting at, and refused to be waylaid. It was impolite to probe, but he couldn’t accept Arden’s blithe dismissal of his own talent. How could a Seer of such power not actually _See_?

A memory flickered to the forefront of his mind at that: a conversation he’d had with Verne during one of his visits to Armathia following Arden’s disappearance. _He was always wishing for another lot in life,_ Verne had said, grief-stricken and angry. _Even in his enchantment, he always wanted to be something he was not._

“You’re not a Seer.”

Arden glanced over at him, wise eyes regarding him with caution. They were the only feature that belied his true age. “I am indeed a Seer my Lord, albeit a minor one.”

Valory growled with irritation. “Speak plainly.”

As the words left his mouth, Valory felt the wind pick up. His attention was diverted by the curses of a nobleman standing on a dock on the other side of the street. He recognized the nobleman: one of the men of mixed ancestry who was always giving Conrad trouble in court. The man’s expensive sun hat had been blown off of his head by the breeze and was now tumbling across the dock.

“That’s Duke Edmund’s nephew, is it not?” he asked.

“Samir,” Arden supplied.

Valory frowned as Samir shouted for his servant to fetch it before it landed in the water. As soon as the hat was recovered and placed upon his head, however, the wind picked up once more. Again the hat was blown off, again Samir cursed, again the servant scurried.

“He seems like a right joy to work for. At least he’s getting his.” Valory looked back over at Arden, amused by the scene – it served Samir right, after all. He was surprised to note how intently focused Arden was on the scene across the street.

Samir’s squawking quieted when his hat was returned to him a second time. Valory watched Arden’s eyes narrow in concentration. Again the wind whipped up, wresting the hat from Samir’s grip before depositing it unceremoniously in the water. Valory felt comprehension hit him solidly in the chest when the hat was dragged under faster than it could have sunk on its own.

“Arden.” He reached out to place a tentative hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You did that.” It seemed as though Miran’s youngest had a sense of humor, after all.

Arden studied the hand on his shoulder before staring frankly into the Prince’s face. “I think some things are more plainly shown than said. You asked me to be plain, my Lord.” A slight smile pulled at his lips.

Valory felt a brief wave of nausea. In a flash, it was gone. He shook his head, attributing it to the residual energies related to Arden exercising his enchantment. “I did. And you were. You’re not _only_ a Seer.”

“No my Lord.”

“You’re an Elementalist. Like me.”

“Not exactly, my Lord. I am not telekinetic.”

Valory considered his words for a moment. “You control the elements, then?”

“Yes,” Arden conceded.

“You were harnessing the wind. What about the others?”

“I’m strongest with fire, but have passing command of earth and water,” Arden confirmed. Before Valory could respond, Arden continued, “Please my Lord, do not speak of this. Few know. Those that do know have been led to believe that I’m a minor firestarter.”

“Your family had no idea.”

Something dark flashed in Arden’s eyes. “They knew me for a minor Seer, no more.”

“But Arden, such an enchantment—”

Arden’s smile was mirthless. “I would rather not discuss such matters, my Lord.”

Valory bowed his head. He was being very rude. “Of course. You’re not wrong. Apologies.”

“Thank you my Lord,” Arden said, coming to a halt and turning to clasp Valory’s arm. They had reached _Windjammer_ ’s dock slip.

“I would like to speak to you again later, if you would,” Valory said as the others’ attention fell upon them again.

Arden met his gaze unflinching. “I would like that as well, my Lord. For now, it would be my Captain’s and my honor to introduce you to our crew and show you our home.”

Callum stepped up at those words, grinning broadly. “Welcome aboard the _Windjammer_ , sir.”

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/caillefille/media/Oceana/windjammer_zps69dfc54a.jpg.html)

.

Even with sails furled, _Windjammer_ cut an imposing figure at the dock. Stretching over a hundred feet from stem to stern, she dominated the dock slip, two masts towering above her neighboring vessels. It was clear to see that she was lovingly cared for and maintained; her railings were varnished, rig freshly tarred, and brass painstakingly polished. She might not have been the newest vessel in the anchorage, but she was lovely all the same.

“ _Windjammer_ is fore and aft rigged as you see, sir. It makes her a better choice for sailing in these waters, since she can head close to the wind,” Callum was saying as they strolled down her tidy deck.

“And through what sorcery?” Imran muttered.

Arden glanced sideways at the Dramorian. “It’s just a question of physics. I could explain if you’re interested.”

Imran sniffed.

“I’m afraid my Lieutenant has no love lost for the sea,” Valory put in. “So she’s gaff-rigged, then?” he continued, noting the way the main and fore sails were neatly furled between boom and gaff.

“That she is, sir,” Callum said, clearly surprised by Valory’s interest in his vessel. “She carries a stay and a jib, and we can put up the fisherman or the flying jib when the wind is brisk and the weather fair.”

“What can she make?” Valory asked, rubbing a hand along a lovingly varnished cap rail.

“Upwards of ten knots, Ranael be willing. We can push her a mite faster in rough weather, but she’ll heel over something fierce and we’ll start to take water in through the scuppers. We’re more likely to cruise somewhere between five and seven,” Callum replied.

“And how is she in rough weather?”

“Oh, we don’t get very far to be sure – in the worst of a storm we’ll have to put a couple of reefs in the main and drop the rest. She’s got a wide beam, though, so she can take a good pounding.”

Little snickered. Valory shot him a look. “You feel confident taking her on a tour of the isles this time of year?”

“Absolutely, sir,” the Captain replied, caressing a spoke of the helm as they crossed the quarterdeck.

“Even with things as they are these days?” Valory pressed.

The smile on Callum’s face faltered. “Truth be told sir, we’ve seen some of what rumor describes. There’s something out there, make no mistake – and it’s no friend of ours. _Windjammer_ can outmaneuver any rogue vessel, but we’re not cowards. Every hand on this ship can fight, however few of us there are.”

Valory nodded, looking back and forth between the Captain and his First Mate. They both wore cutlasses at their hips: the traditional sailor’s weapon. Valory noted that they both carried rig knives as well. Arden wore his sheathed on his right hip alongside a marlinspike.

“Have you seen anything else other than unwelcome traffic in our waters?”

“We’ve noted that less navy men are around these days, although I suppose they’re too occupied to spend much time carousing with us. We’ve heard about the creatures as well, sir. Jonah saw one on watch a fortnight ago.”

“One of your crew?” Valory asked.

“A deckhand. He rang the bell as soon as it reared its head. Jack here put an arrow in the thing after it bumped us the second time. If he didn’t kill it, he at least scared it off.”

“Did he?” Valory asked, glancing over towards Arden. Miran had once told him in no uncertain terms that Arden could aim an arrow at the ocean and miss. Valory remembered watching Arden, who had barely reached his majority at the time, stare down at his food without comment.

Arden’s mouth was pressed into a line, face grave as if the situation called the same memory to his mind. “The creatures shrink from fire. A lit arrow is as good as any weapon so long as the creature is struck when it pushes above the surface,” he said. “I hit it cleanly, though perhaps not fatally. It let out a terrible shriek and disappeared into the depths.”

“Where was this?”

“Near the drop off past the Mounds. We were on the way from Lyre.”

“That’s very close to the peninsula,” Gabe frowned.

Valory nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. Something was happening, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what or why.

“Rumor has it that the danger is approaching from all sides these days,” Callum nodded.

“Then you understand very well the danger that granting us passage poses to _Windjammer_ and her crew,” Valory stated.

Callum huffed. “Oh, we know. _Windjammer_ does a bit of this and a bit of that, but we wouldn’t get paid so well or come so highly recommended if we were strangers to dangerous operations.” Valory raised a brow.

“ _Windjammer_ has been contracted by the navy on several occasions to ferry mercenary crew out to fight whatever it is that’s spreading from the south. We’re well acquainted with combat,” Arden explained.

“Seen your fair share of action, then?” Little asked.

“Even our cook can fight,” Arden confirmed. Callum’s strangled laughter greeted the statement. Gabe and Little exchanged confused glances.

“I take it your crew is loyal, then,” Valory said.

“We’ve been to hell and back together,” Callum nodded.

“I think we might know something about that,” Valory said. “Regardless, I would like to speak with them. I won’t bring any man blindly into the eastern waters. By your leave, I would give them permission to opt out of this trip without any fear of recrimination or punishment.”

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll save a spot in the roster for them, but I could find placements for those who won’t ship out with us.”

“I doubt anyone will take you up on that,” Arden said.

“Nevertheless, the Prince has the right of it. Illen only knows what we’ll see out there – coming clean to the others is for the best,” Callum said firmly. “The crew is waiting below . . . or would you see your quarters first?”

“Sleeping arrangements are immaterial so long as the four of us have a space together.”

“We’ve put you in the fo’c’sle,” Callum offered.

“That will be fine.”

“Says the man in the spacious upper starboard berth,” Little muttered.

“Best me at cards and you can have it,” Valory challenged.

“Oh good, insult _and_ injury. Thank you so much, sir,” Little rolled his eyes.

“Shall we then?” Valory asked, nodding towards midships.

“Of course, sir,” Callum said, leading the way. They proceeded down the steps to midships before turning and heading down a long companionway. Little, Valory, and Arden had to duck until they stood next to the galley. A fantastic smell was drifting out of the oven. Much to their surprise, the door to the pantry popped open and a pretty face poked out.

“Da, have you gotten into the stores again?” the young woman accused, frowning. She started when she saw the strangers, nearly banging her head on a cast iron skillet.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Callum said, mock-innocent, before turning to Valory. “This is my daughter Ehrin. She’s the ship’s surgeon and cook. The men call her the Galley Tyrant, for you will rue the day that you attempt to sneak something not allotted in your rations.”

“You _did!_ ” Ehrin said, shaking her finger and attempting to hide her smile. “Well, no matter. Gentlemen, you must be hungry. Would you care for some lemon cakes? They’re just warming in the oven.”

“Lemon cakes?” Arden asked, pleased.

“Jack, you keep your filthy paws out of my galley,” Ehrin warned, wrapping a rag around her hand and removing the pan from the oven.

“You haven’t had lemon cakes until you’ve tasted Ehrin’s,” Arden confided, reaching towards the pan. Ehrin slapped his hand away with little ceremony.

“Let your guests partake first,” she said, offering Valory first choice.

Valory nodded his thanks, sparing a sideways glance at Arden’s bemused expression. His men snapped up the treats, leaving Ehrin to offer the leftovers to her father and the First Mate. Callum dug out a piece, took an enormous bite, and smiled in bliss. He kissed his daughter on the cheek before moving towards the salon.

Arden contemplated the pan for a moment before making his selection. “I thought for a moment you wouldn’t guard my corner piece.”

“And it’d serve you right. Don’t think for a minute I haven’t figured out where all of those fresh Kythrian mangoes went.”

“Such an accusation is a heavy thing, Lady of the Galley.”

“Out!” Ehrin laughed. Arden moved just fast enough to evade the snap of her towel. Setting the pan down on the stove top she smoothed down her skirt and moved to join them in the salon.

Three more sailors sat together in the salon, hurriedly wiping the table free from traces of a card game. Valory noted the delighted expression on Little’s face. His officer was doubtlessly tired of losing to him, and knew an opportunity when he saw one.

“Lads,” Callum said, calling them to attention. “It would seem as though _Windjammer_ has passed muster as always. We’ve got our commission, and will be setting out at first light.” Grins broke out around the table. “Before we go any further, though, our patron has asked to have some words with you.”

Valory stepped forward, swallowing the last of the delicious confection and wiping a few crumbs out of his short-cropped beard.

“First off, I would like to extend my compliments to Miss Ehrin, for that lemon cake is by far the best I’ve ever tasted,” he said. Ehrin favored him with an exaggerated curtsy. The men laughed.

“They’re the finest cakes in the East,” declared the biggest of the sailors, an accent lacing his words. White-blonde hair indicated that he was Sarian.

“A point I dare not contend.” Valory’s statement was met with guffaws. “Crew of the _Windjammer_ , my men and I come to you in need of safe passage through the isles. Our ultimate destination is Armathia. We know the dangers we might face in these darkening times, but we do not seek to run from them. Although it is our mission to gain some insight into the shadow that so many have seen spreading across our lands, I would not leave it merely at that – not if we hear tell of fellow countrymen in need.”

“We wouldn’t deny aid to our brothers,” the Sarian said, speaking again.

“I should hope not, yet I’m sure that all of you know how such charity often comes at a price. The road we walk could lead us to battle. I would not shy away from it. Is that a condition that you are willing to accept?”

“And what of the creatures?” another man asked, slighter and darker than the Sarian.

“From them I will not run.”

“Just one could founder a whole ship,” the man pointed out.

“Yet until we find out what manner of creatures they are and from whence they come, our ships will continue to fall prey to them. On this journey it is information we seek, and if we must put ourselves in danger to attain it, so be it. Those are my orders.”

“You sound like you’re spoiling for a fight, soldier,” the Sarian observed.

“Not at all. I seek only to have you all understand the scope of this voyage. We may face many a fight ere our mission is completed. You can rest assured, however, that you are sailing in the name of the King.”

“And who are you, sir, who is commissioned to fight in the name of the King?” the dark-skinned man asked.

“Before I give you my name, I would have you discuss this matter amongst yourselves. Any man . . . or woman,” he nodded at Ehrin, “who does not wish to continue back out to the isles will be released from their duties with a recommendation.”

“What kind of scalawags does he take us for? We go where _Windjammer_ goes,” the Sarian declared, thumping the table with a fist.

“Peace,” Arden interjected, holding out his hands. “Our Captain is being very generous by allowing us to opt out of a dangerous excursion at our patron’s request. No insult is meant.”

“The man won’t even tell us his name,” the darker sailor pointed out. “That’s an insult right there, it is.”

Arden raised a brow. “You would grudge him the opportunity to prevent the spread of idle gossip?”

“What’s he to you, that you’d defend him? He offer you more than the rest of us?” he asked, voice rising. The more irritated he became, the more pronounced his Ithakan accent.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” Arden snapped.

“What, you’ll let some nameless landlubber say what he will, and have his back over one of your own? Who knows what kind of stock he came from?”

Arden took a step forward, fury flashing in his eyes. Valory knew that the Steward’s son was feeling insult on his behalf and sought to put an end to the argument before it went any further. “Jack,” he said, the name still sounding awkward on his tongue. He was paid no heed. “Jack,” he tried again, louder. Nothing. “Arden,” he finally bit out. There was no need to raise his voice. The command in his tone was unmistakable. Arden froze as if struck.

“Arden?” the third sailor asked, finally speaking. He looked back and forth between his Captain and First Mate, perplexed.

“A man sometimes has his reasons for going by many names. You all know this. I meant no insult to your honor, sailor. Now please, leave it be. I will await your decision on deck,” Valory said, turning away from the salon. As he waited for his men to start up the companionway, he overheard the sailor asking,

“Arden?” His voice was tentative.

Callum filled the stunned silence. “It’s but one of our Jack’s names.”

Valory followed Imran up the companionway, but couldn’t bring himself to shut the door. It was unbecoming of a Prince to eavesdrop, perhaps, yet curiosity overcame him at the thought of hearing Arden’s response. Behind him Little let out a huff of amused laughter as he crouched down, peering through the companionway to watch what came to pass.

.

The Prince and his men left them to have their words in private, but that didn’t fool Arden for a moment. He could see the trickle of light coming down the main companionway on the other side of the galley and knew that the doors to the deck remained open. It was amusing to think that one of the King’s sons would engage in such a juvenile maneuver. Arden felt his lips tick upward at the corners as he turned to regard his men.

“What, getting tired of Jack, now?” Niko asked. Arden had sailed with him well enough to know he smarted from hurt pride: both that his Mate would throw his lot in so easily with another, and that this other would have already learned his name.

“It wasn’t my intention to deal you an insult, Nik,” he said.

“No? But you’d side with a man who would?”

Arden let out a long sigh. The Prince was still watching; he could feel the other man’s enchantment sitting just behind his breastbone. There was something comforting about that, but he couldn’t quite put words to why. His head was still spinning from the shock of seeing Valory’s face again, just as striking as he had been last time they had spoken. The day’s turn of events on a whole were so surprising that he could hardly think, could hardly breathe.

“I doubt that was his intention, either.”

“So you’re an Empath now as well?” Niko continued, dealing back some of the hurt with more barbed words. “Or did you just spill your tale to him in the tavern, things you’ve not told us, men you’ve been sailing with for years?”

“Peace, lads,” Callum interrupted. “Just as our patron knows our boy here as Arden, you know him as Jack – and I saw with my own eyes that we know him by a name the man’s never heard before.”

“Yeh,” Niko huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

“If you’re upset about my obstinacy in this area, Nik—”

“Can you blame him?” It was Ehrin who spoke, toying with the ties on her apron as she did.

“My inability to speak candidly on this matter is more of a reflection on me than it is on you.” He met Niko’s eyes. “I left home a long time ago, and much of the circumstances surrounding my departure are matters I have no desire to revisit. Your words to me last night were welcome and wise, but I think perhaps you forget just how powerful a name can be.”

“It’s a Gods-damned _word_ , Jack. If once you called yourself ‘Arden’, what of it?”

“I never called myself Arden.”

Confusion was writ large across Niko’s features. “Huh?”

Arden swallowed. He knew in his bones that he had reached a crossroads, and whether it was enchantment or intuition that told him so, it was an opportunity he had to honor. Here, laid before him with the Prince’s pronouncement of his name, was what he had been waiting for.

He had been away from home for more than twenty years. Of late he had found it wearying, and his thoughts had turned more and more to his brothers, to Armathia. He had long thought that he would never be welcome there again. Though he was a grown man, a small part of him still feared that he lacked the strength to return, to make amends, to take up the role he was born into.

For months he had stalled, indecisive, balanced on a knife’s edge. He was desperate to make his next move, but couldn’t imagine when or how he would manage it. He was loath to leave _Windjammer_ and her crew. In a way, he knew that he was waiting for a sign – leaving it to the Gods to decide his fate.

 _And what a fine job they’ve done_ , he thought, wry smile only serving to deepen the crease of confusion that lined Niko’s brow. Illen herself couldn’t have made a neater trap, for just beyond the edge of the companionway waited one of Eramen’s heirs, a man he was duty-bound to serve and protect. If his earlier quarrel with Niko was anything to go by, it seemed that even a half of a lifetime away from Armathia hadn’t driven that impulse from his blood.

He couldn’t shirk his identity before a son of the House of Kings.

“I didn’t call myself Arden,” he repeated, an old burden lifting off of his chest. “You asked me last night what sort of a man my father was, and while this is by no means his whole measure, I can tell you this: he gave me my name, and that’s the one he chose.”

“Arden?”

“Yeh,” he shrugged, spreading his hands. “A name that, no matter how many others I acquire, will always be mine.”

All of his crew began to talk at once. He felt rather than saw Valory’s smile, and knew that the Prince had shut the companionway doors. A remarkable sense of peace descended upon him. It was done.

.

On deck, Valory sat next to Gabriel in stunned silence.

“He told them? Just like that?” Gabe asked.

“I backed him into a corner,” Valory frowned.

“Which the Captain neatly extricated him from, if I recall. Perhaps you inspired him, sir.”

“I would it were that, and not the alternative.”

They fell silent once more, waiting for the crew to finish their debate. Imran prowled the deck, shooting mistrustful glances at everything. Little let out a soft snore from the housetop where he had fallen asleep. Valory felt himself beginning to nod off as well when the companionway opened.

“They’re talking still,” Arden said, waving a hand towards the door. “I was only distracting them.”

Valory pushed himself upright. “I hope my ill-thought use of your name hasn’t caused you too many difficulties.”

“No. You have done me a great service, my Lord.”

“A service?”

Arden sighed, sliding onto the midships housetop next to them. “It was time.”

“Why didn’t you say something to them sooner?” Valory asked.

“Sometimes it is easier to continue letting things go as they are than to undertake all of the effort and risk that comes with the truth,” Arden sighed. “Blood is thick. I feared what they would think.”

“And now? I will not hide my name from them. They will make the connection. I hope I did not force the confession out of you,” Valory frowned.

“It’s time,” Arden repeated with the kind of surety only a Seer could muster. “I meant what I said – you have given me an opportunity, one that I have been waiting for. I knew it was coming, I suppose, but I didn’t realize it would be like _this_.”

“I’m glad I didn’t do you a disservice, then. I wonder though – would you ride with me back up to the city center tonight? I would accompany you if you wished for an audience with your brother,” Valory said.

“I don’t think so, my Lord.”

“Surely you wish to see him, else you wouldn’t have been so full of questions about his wellbeing earlier,” Valory pointed out.

“I’m not . . . no. Not yet. I confess I haven’t thought much further than telling my men. I think I would . . . I would see Verne first, in person. I will write Conrad from Armathia. That is, if it’s alright that I make for the city with you when we reach the capital.”

“You’ll come to Armathia with me?” Valory asked, surprised.

Arden ran a hand over his face. “I suppose I will. I can’t go on like this – not now, when I know that Verne has been looking for me.”

“And Conrad,” Valory reminded him.

“And Conrad.”

“You should go see him. He grieves your loss terribly.”

“Give me some time, my Lord. Please,” Arden implored. “I can’t face Conrad right now – especially not mere hours before I’m due to depart. If all’s well and we make it to Armathia in one piece, I’ll write him then.”

“You’re not afraid to face him, are you?” Valory asked.

“Terrified,” Arden admitted. “You know my brothers, my Lord. You know that Conrad would be the first to dredge up the things I cannot speak of yet.”

“Perhaps you cannot answer Conrad’s questions of ‘why now?’, and I believe I understand that. What I would know, however, is probably what he is more interested in hearing as well: ‘why then?’ Why did you leave Armathia to begin with?” Valory pressed.

As the words left his mouth the companionway door opened again. Ehrin gestured back towards the salon. “We’re ready for you, sir.”

Valory frowned at the interruption, but nevertheless stood to beckon Imran back below while Arden roused Little and Gabe. They convened in the salon for the second time that afternoon. Valory noted that the crew seemed far more relaxed than they had previously; even the Ithakan was smiling.

“Gentlemen, we unanimously accept your commission. _Windjammer_ will be sailing with all hands at first light,” Callum said, beaming at his crew.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Valory answered.

“How do you know our Jack here? Or, ah, Arden, as it were?” The words tumbled out of the Ithakan’s mouth before Valory had finished his sentence.

Arden let out an amused huff. “I hardly expect you to get used to calling me by another name, Niko. I imagine I’ll readily respond to ‘Jack’ for a good long while after this.”

“That being said, we’re still a mite more curious about your other name,” Niko admitted.

Valory glanced over at Arden, who nodded. “Our families know each other well, and have done for many years.”

“You know his family?” Niko asked.

“He _has_ family?” the Sarian put in.

“I know his father and his brothers. He walks very much in their likeness. Family aside, I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

“What kind of mischief did he get up to as a lad, sir?” the third crewmember asked.

“Jonah,” Arden reprimanded with a roll of his eyes.

“Was he as quick with a cutlass and a bow as he is now?” the Sarian wanted to know.

“Or a witty retort?” Niko added.

Valory considered these questions for a moment. In fact, Arden had been none of those things as a boy. He hadn’t been mischievous. His father had grieved his lack of interest in the military. He had been quiet and shy, and preferred the company of books to the company of his peers. Over the years Valory had only managed to have a handful of conversations with Miran’s youngest son, and all of them had taken place in the palace library where Valory would stumble upon him, secreted away in a dark corner, a book as thick as he was around sitting open in his lap.

Arden met his eyes in a silent plea. He had no desire to listen to Valory’s perspective on his childhood – a desire that Valory could well understand. “Well,” Valory began, “he’s always been a clever fellow. And I suppose you know well what they say about boys who know too much for their own good.”

The Sarian laughed heartily. “A regular troublemaker then, were you sir?” Arden smiled, but did not comment.

“He was the curious sort,” Valory responded – not a lie, but yet also an indirect confirmation of the erroneous conclusion drawn by the Sarian. Arden glanced sideways at him.

“Tell me he didn’t spend all of his petty cash on ‘rare volumes’ like he does these days,” Jonah begged.

Valory couldn’t contain his snort of laughter. Now _that_ was the Arden he remembered, in there somewhere amongst all of the dissimilarities. “Curiosity takes all forms, gentlemen. I imagine that was the form his tutors liked best.”

Jonah groaned. “If it’s a childhood habit, lads, we’ll never be able to break him of it.”

“I fail to see the harm in having a few nice books in my cabin,” Arden said, narrowing his eyes.

Jonah grinned. “It’d be one thing if we were to take ‘few’ at its meaning.” He turned to Valory, laughing. “We call it the ‘ship’s library’. It drives Jack nutty. In faith, none will set foot in there but Mizzen.”

“Who’s Mizzen?” Valory asked.

“ _Windjammer_ ’s cat – proving yet again that a tabby mutt has better taste in novels than you lot,” Arden shot back, fighting the grin that threatened to creep across his lips.

“Wait now lads, let’s not get side-tracked,” Niko said, banging his palm against the table as everyone started talking at once. “What I want to know is, sir – who are you, then, if you knew our First Mate as a babe?”

Arden, as it turned out, beat Valory to the answer. “He is Prince Valory bar Adrianth di Oceana,” he said, watching the faces of his men transform from anticipatory to awestruck. It seemed as though they couldn’t scramble down to their knees quickly enough. Ehrin, for her part, bowed into a deep curtsy.

“That isn’t necessary – not in these parts where I don’t travel under my name. I apologize for my evasiveness earlier, but I didn’t want to open up an avenue for gossip should one of you have decided not to join the _Windjammer_ for this voyage.”

“I beg your pardon for questioning you earlier, sire. T’was mighty disrespectful of me,” Niko winced.

“No offense was taken. I would, however, like to make proper introductions this time around. Here beside me stands my second in command, Lieutenant Imran bar Garo di Dramor.” The sailors looked unhappy upon finding out that the desert-dweller was indeed Dramorian, but none dared complain. “Then, my two officers: Jacob bar Laine di Oceana who prefers to go by Little—” the sailors snickered “—and Gabriel bar Anders di Oceana.”

“You’ve all met Jack and Ehrin, of course. This here is my bo’sun, Lars bar Fredrick di Saria,” Callum began.

“From Halen,” Lars clarified, moving to clasp arms all around.

“My carpenter, Nikolas bar Aldo di Oceana – though he will likely want me to mention that he’s from Ithaka, as all of us islanders do,” Callum continued, smiling indulgently. “And of course Jonah bar Aaron di Oceana, deckhand, fiddler, and fellow Kilcoranian.”

Once arms were clasped all around, it seemed as though the question that had begged to leap off of all the sailors’ tongues couldn’t keep a moment longer. Niko gave in first, throwing up his hands towards Arden as he shouted, “The Prince knew you as a boy!”

The exclamation produced yet another wave of noisy chatter amongst the sailors. Questions were being shouted at Valory and Arden left and right, faster than they had any ability to process let alone answer. Valory noted that the only silent member of _Windjammer_ ’s crew was Callum’s daughter, who stared at Arden unblinking. Arden was in the midst of fielding a question about youthful hijinks when Ehrin finally seemed to find her tongue again.

“Your name is Arden,” she said firmly. The men hooted and whistled.

“A bright one you’ve got here, Cap!” Lars laughed.

Ehrin shot him a dirty look. “Your name is Arden, the Prince knew you as a babe. You have a great love of fine books – finer than any of us would ever see the need for. You’ve been educated. Your accent has always placed you as Armathian, even when you tried to hide it. You’re not just the runaway of some minor noble or diplomat – you’re Arden bar Miran, the High Steward’s lost son!”

The room fell silent. Arden breathed deeply through the moment of panic he felt as the eyes of his crew all turned expectantly toward him. “It would seem,” he said, sounding far more confident than he felt, “that I’m not quite as lost as my nickname would lead one to believe.”

“I’d sure hope not, given how many charts you hoard in your cabin,” Jonah grinned, breaking the tension.

“Those happen to be Mizzen’s favorite bedding, I’ll have you know,” Arden jested.

“Figures that the cat would sprawl out on the only useful papers in the whole cabin,” Jonah rolled his eyes.

Valory hung back as Arden sat with his men, stretching his long legs out under the table. Jonah pulled out the deck of cards again, gesturing wordlessly at Callum. Callum nodded in permission and Jonah turned towards Valory. “Anyone in for a game?” he asked. “Cap won’t let us wager anything we have so we bet points instead.”

“Deal me in,” Little said eagerly, dropping his large frame onto the bench next to Arden.

Gabriel shook his head, jiggling the chain that hung about his neck in response to the men’s words of protest. “Oh what, an Empath? C’mon, we’ll deal you a spot,” Jonah waved his hand in dismissal.

“Telepath,” Gabriel sighed. “Though if you ever find yourselves indulging in a game of Chance or Threes . . .”

“We’ll let you know, soldier. What about you, Dramorian?” Lars asked.

“Don’t call me that,” Imran answered, stepping towards the table with all of his catlike grace. He glared at Lars over Little’s shoulder.

“Imran, was it?” Arden asked. The two men locked eyes. “We don’t see very many desert dwellers in these parts. You’ll have to introduce us to some of your card games – I’ll confess I’m getting a bit sick of Ante.”

“Blasphemy – no one gets sick of Ante on this ship,” Jonah proclaimed, shuffling with a card swindler’s practiced ease.

“I know Ante. Deal me in?” Imran requested. He met the gazes of the sailors levelly. He had nothing to hide.

“Seven cards it is,” Jonah responded, flicking the well-worn cards across the table.

The tension in the room eased as Imran picked up his cards with a predatory smile, peering over his hand with ill-concealed glee. “I hope your pride can take a schooling, sailor.”

“We’ll see about that. My hand’ll have you all begging for mercy,” Lars declared.

“I doubt that will be the case,” Arden said, tossing down a card and reaching towards the deck for another.

“You say that now, Jack—”

Valory took a seat next to Callum in the periphery, preparing to speak of technical matters – itineraries, last minute provisions, procedures in the event of an emergency. He found that his gaze kept slipping back to the card game, however, where Arden was teasing the assembled company with a sharp little grin. Miran’s ‘odd boy’ had grown into a fine man – tall and broad shouldered, noble featured . . .

Valory shook his head. Arden was a handsome man, and that was a dangerous thing. It wouldn’t do to study the youngest of the line of the Stewards with such avidity.

As if sent purely to take his mind off of his thoughts, Ehrin appeared in the salon once more, a tray overloaded with pewter mugs of grog. She served Valory and Callum with a smile before moving on to pass the mugs around the room. The men cheered and hooted as Arden threw down his hand, besting the rest of the soldiers and sailors with ease.

“To Jack!” Jonah declared, holding his mug aloft. “To Arden bar Miran, sneaky sonofabitch that he is, hiding out on our very own vessel all this time.”

“To the Captain,” Lars added.

“To our guests,” Ehrin put in, “and to our patron for this generous commission . . . and the revelry we’ll have once it’s done.”

“To _Windjammer_ and her crew,” Valory said, raising his own mug in salute.

Callum offered up the final toast of the morning. “And to Ranael,” he continued, clanking his mug against Valory’s, “may he bless our journey!”

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/caillefille/media/Oceana/Windjammerdeckplan_zps74806a68.jpg.html)

 

****That said, the images in this chapter were borrowed (with good intentions) from  _Mystic Whaler,_ and are not mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> On Enchantments:
> 
> There are four major types: Empath, Elementalist, Seer, Healer. These four types manifest themselves in different ways depending on the strength and circumstance.
> 
> Talents manifest around age ten, reaching maturation by the time puberty finishes. Some are developmentally delayed; this is sometimes the case with very strong talents or (rare) secondary talents. There is some evidence to suggest that great stress can change the way a talent manifests, making it stronger or weaker.
> 
> The strength of one's talent determines the scope of their abilities; this scope relates to *what* one can do for *how long* over *what distance* before they exhaust themselves. Typically it takes uncommon strength to use a talent for a long period of time or over a distance of more than a few feet.
> 
> Enchantment use takes a great deal of energy; all but the paltriest of tricks take time and effort to master, and force to execute. Constant use of energy on this level would kill a normal man. Those with enchantments have different physiology; better metabolism, higher immune response, better cell regeneration (this is discussed a bit more in later chapters). Though these properties exist to power the enchantment, they have the added benefit of providing the enchanted with exceptionally long lives and good health.
> 
> Because enchantment use takes so much energy, those with talents sensitive to the energy given off by other talents and how that energy interacts with their own. Most are neutral presences, though some people have abnormally consonant or dissonant signatures.
> 
> As far as use of enchantments go, some choose to use theirs all the time and hone their craft, others never do -- just like any other kind of talent. For example, Val uses his telekinetic talent sparingly because he thinks it makes him lazy. Arden never makes a conscious attempt at using his Prophetic talent, but it works its way into his thoughts regardless. Little, though only a minor Healer, has honed his skill to be good at what he does in spite of his lack of strength.
> 
> (2)
> 
> The Eastern World is a mixed bag, racially speaking -- especially in Oceana and the Western territories. Skin tones range from Dramorian (almost albino) white, to ginger (Arden), to caucasian (Little), to shades of brown (Val, Niko, Ehrin, Gabe ... this is most common south of the Armathian peninsula; remember that Val has a Midlander mother). Dramor and northern Saria would be the most homogenized -- Dramor because of Arrar's blessing, Saria because of phenotypic isolation. Racial dynamics are complicated, but wayyy different from what they are in our world/history.


	4. Chapter 4

_The Season of Storms  
Ranád the 1; 2421_

The day was fair and the wind brisk. They had sailed off the dock at first light, running up the main almost immediately. The early hours had been tense, spent navigating around partially submerged rocks and reef. They were making good time, however, and by mid-morning they sighted Whale Rock, the turning point at the northernmost tip of the Mounds. Upon the sighting the sailors shouted out, tipping their caps to Ranael and Illen. Callum ordered a course of due south before disappearing below and collapsing in his bunk. He ceded the helm to Jonah, who kept course with the ease of a lifetime sailor. The rest of the men milled about the deck; they would break off into watch teams later that night. Until then it was expected that all hands would stay close by.

Valory wound his way up midships with alacrity, taking care to avoid the coiled mainsail and foresail halyards. It wouldn’t do to foul the important lines, even if he logically knew that a ballantine coil could take a good kicking before it started to knot. Still, he had spent many a year at sea and had no desire to be taken for a lubber on his first day’s sail.

He moved forward slowly, regarding the man sitting cross-legged on the foredeck with curiosity. He well remembered the melancholy youth who had been the subject of worried whispers amongst the court. Valory had begun his travels by the time Arden had reached young adulthood, but dispatches from Armathia had been full of veiled references to Miran’s ‘odd boy’.

Arden had always been a scholar at heart. Valory could remember snippets of conversations they’d had: even as a young man, Arden had held a remarkable grasp on history, religion, and politics. Lore had fascinated him. Science enraptured him. He had stared at his Prince in sullen contempt when Valory had dared to suggest that he offer his keen mind up to High Steward Miran’s service. Then again, Miran had always been hypercritical of his youngest son, seeing weakness and ineptitude where there was none.

Arden looked up from the line in his lap, feeling the weight of Valory’s gaze. He met Valory’s stare for a moment before bowing his head to continue his work. Yes, Valory remembered the thoughtful boy who could quote tomes from memory and explored tide pools with scholarly abandon – but the fully-formed man who stood in his place had a hard edge that Valory had not seen before. He would make a formidable enemy, which was precisely why Valory sought him as an ally.

“What work occupies you so?” Valory asked.

“Splicing, my Lord. It will be the new jib sheet once I’m finished.”

Valory sat next to the comfortably perched man, watching him deftly manage the marlinspike for a few moments. “I am a stranger to the art, I confess,” he said.

Arden glanced back at him, turning the end of the line in his hand so he could see where it had been braided back into itself to create an unbreakable loop. “It isn’t so difficult.”

“Yet Callum leaves the job to you.”

Arden let out a chuff of laughter. “I enjoy marlinspike work, my Lord. I do the splicing and the whippings of my own accord.”

“Might I then assume that the coxcombing in the companionways is your handiwork as well?” Valory asked, noting the bits of decorative knot work on the handle of Arden’s marlinspike, the hilt of his rig knife, and the scabbard of his cutlass.

“It is, my Lord: a way to pass the time.”

Arden was clearly uncomfortable in his presence, but Valory couldn’t bring himself to leave the man in peace. He wanted so terribly to show Arden that he harbored no ill will towards him. “It’s beautiful work,” he said.

Arden looked up again, surprised, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Would you call me Valory? I think we’ve known one another long enough to dispense with such formalities.”

“As you wish,” Arden nodded.

Valory couldn’t help but feel as though Arden had no intention of honoring his request, which didn’t surprise him overmuch. High Steward Miran had spent more than forty years evading the use of the King’s given name, after all.

“Prepare to tack!” Jonah called from the helm, turning a finger in the air in warning.

Arden dropped his work and scooted backwards towards the staysail sheet. Niko motioned for Valory to take the working jib sheet, which he hastened to do. Ehrin perched herself atop the midships housetop, ready on the fore. Lars, big man that he was, had recruited Little on the main.

“Ready to tack?” Jonah shouted again as the men took their stations.

“Ready to tack!” they shouted back with one voice. Valory made sure the coiled sheet was ready to run free before taking the lock off of the jib cleat. He leaned back, waiting.

“Tacking!” Jonah called, throwing the helm hard over to starboard. The bow swung to the right. The sails began to sag and luff as _Windjammer_ moved towards the eye of the wind. As the pressure came off of the working sheet and the jib began to flog, Valory took another wrap off of the cleat, waiting for Niko’s signal. Once the bow crossed Niko shouted,

“Let it go!”

Valory took the last turn off of the cleat and let the line run free. Niko hauled on the starboard sheet, pulling the clew of the sail around the foremast. As _Windjammer_ fell off the wind the sail began to fill with air, threatening to pull the line from Niko’s hands. Niko was faster, however, getting a few wraps on. He waited for _Windjammer_ to settle into a broad reach, sheeting out as she turned. He glanced up at the telltales then back at the foresail. Satisfied, he locked the line off on the cleat and turned to Valory.

“Not your first time on a ship then, sire?” he asked.

“Not my first,” Valory admitted as Arden crept out from behind the fo’c’sle where he had been coiling the staysail sheet. The three men convened on the windward side of the foredeck. Arden had brought his work and seated himself again. Valory lounged on the steps next to him while Niko rested his back against the ratlines, rooting around in one of his pockets.

A dark head popped out of the fo’c’sle, blinking warily. “What was that?” Imran asked, eyeing the three men with unbridled suspicion. Valory hid his smile with no small amount of effort.

“We changed tacks,” Niko shrugged.

At Imran’s blank look, Valory added, “We had to cross the bow through the eye of the wind and move the sails to the other side of the boat.”

“Hm,” Imran replied, hoisting himself up the ladder and onto deck. He glanced around, noting that the sails were all in different positions than when he had first gone down below. “We have good weather for travel.”

“Ranael has blessed our voyage, to be sure,” Niko said, palming his rig knife and continuing to carve a small piece of wood.

“What are you working on now?” Arden asked, motioning towards Niko’s hands.

Niko held up the figurine. It was clear that he had recently begun whittling it, though the form of a rough-hewn fish was beginning to emerge from the grain. “Triggerfish,” Niko replied. “I’ve yet to get started on the fins, but you’ll see it soon enough.”

“For Ranael?” Arden asked.

“I’m fixing to have it done by the time we make port in Lyre.” He turned to Imran. “There’s a church just outside Old Town – pretty little thing. Ever seen it?”

“Once, perhaps,” Imran allowed. “It is the one built from coral rock?”

“The very same. I’ve got a mind to pay a little tribute to Ranael for this brisk wind in hopes we might see more of it on our way to Armathia,” Niko confirmed, tapping the fish carving with one hand.

“Are there altars to Illen and Fángon at the church?” Imran asked.

“There are, and I’ll have a spot of something to leave for them too. Ranael, though, he’s the patron of all sailors,” Niko explained.

“Hm,” Imran grunted. No one failed to note how his eyes flicked upwards toward the sun. He turned, folding his legs gracefully beneath him to sit on Valory’s left. Valory noticed that Imran had foregone his tunic that afternoon, appearing as the sailors did in a simple loose linen shirt. Resistance to the heat aside, it was rare that Imran wore so little: his tunics were all cut to hide the holster for the twin blades he wore at his back.

Arden’s eyes were immediately drawn towards the leather-bound hilts sticking out of the harness-style holster. He had heard of the preferred weapons of the Dramorian elite, though he had never had the occasion to see any fight with them. In short order Imran had caught him staring, and held his gaze.

“You fight two-handed?” Arden asked, figuring it would be silly to deny his curiosity.

“I do.”

“Is that the way of the Dramorian military, or is it a particular technique?” he continued.

“It takes practice to master, and so it is a style reserved for those of higher rank or, on occasion, exceptional talent,” Imran replied.

“They are the same length?”

“They are.”

“Do you find that you prefer to strike with one hand over the other?” Arden pressed. “Is one blade dominant, or do they both do their part?”

“I have no preference,” Imran shrugged. “Perhaps it is the lack of preference that is so difficult to train – I am not certain. I have always been able to write with both hands, so I fight with both.”

“Then you were one of the exceptionally talented, rather than one of higher rank,” Arden deduced.

“I was both,” Imran inclined his head. “It is similar here. Those who are noble-born advance further and more quickly, but only go so far if their parentage is adequate but their abilities are not.” His rich accent colored his words.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Arden backtracked, realizing that his questions – though well-meant – were meddling into the other man’s personal history.

Imran shrugged. “If you ask something I do not care to answer, I will tell you to mind your own damn business. Until then, ask what you will.”

Arden smiled at the man’s candor. “How are you with other weapons – a bow, or a broadsword?”

“The broadsword is not to my taste,” Imran wrinkled his nose. “I am competent with a bow, though not the equal of Valory or Gabriel. If I must fight with one hand I would choose something light and quick, like what you have there.”

“A cutlass,” Arden supplied. “It’s better in close quarters than a broadsword, and lighter besides. Most captains prefer to outfit their crew with them because they take little skill to handle.”

“And do you have little skill?” Imran asked, raising a single dark brow.

Arden rose to the challenge. “I suppose you’ll have to find out.”

“I would like that, though perhaps not today. With all of this movement, I would shame myself,” Imran said, gesturing as _Windjammer_ took another roll.

“In a few days, then, when you get your sea legs,” Arden agreed. “If you’re amenable, I’m very interested in your weapons. Perhaps you might show me a few things?”

Imran regarded the Steward’s son with open curiosity. “Most Oceanic men scoff at my blades – they say the broadsword is a greater weapon.”

“I have no love lost for the broadsword,” Arden said, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. “I find it clumsy, to be honest – or perhaps I am simply clumsy with one.”

“We are in agreement, then. It may take much time before you are competent with your second hand, however,” Imran cautioned.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Many sailors fight two-handed, did you not know?” he asked, gesturing to his rig knife. “It’s not quite the same, of course – I wouldn’t say that my cutlass and knife are co-dominant in a fight, but I daresay I’m a step closer to your method than most.”

Imran cocked his head, considering. “Interesting. I have never met an Oceanic man who uses both.”

Arden shrugged. “Now you know several of us. Niko has been known to wield his knife in a fight as well.”

Niko nodded, tapping the handle of his rig knife. “More than just the knife, if need be. I’ve seen Callum put a marlinspike into a sea-witch’s back.”

“I’m sure Imran will be delighted to speak about that with him,” Valory put in. Imran appeared unsure whether or not he wanted to agree or disagree.

“I remember that day. It was an impressive spectacle,” Arden allowed.

Valory looked back at the Steward’s son. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Arden, but I seem to remember that you were never fond of combat. What changed?”

Arden met Valory’s stare searchingly, but couldn’t find a hint of the reproach he had anticipated. Valory was not the adversary he had been expecting when they first met. He found himself feeling relieved at that. As a boy he had always admired the Princes, Valory in particular. And now . . . among other things, he found Valory’s accent comforting. It had been a long time since he had spoken with someone from home.

“I do not enjoy the act of killing,” he said. “I know there are men who do, but we have none of that sort aboard _Windjammer_. It took many years for me to accustom myself to the idea that I might take the life of another and not damn myself for eternity. As time went by I realized that my desire to protect myself and my companions from harm was paramount and I applied myself to the study of arms in earnest. That was years after leaving Armathia, however.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” Valory nodded. “Taking lives is a necessary evil.”

“Exactly so. I will allow, however, that there is a certain satisfaction to be gained from mastering even a violent art.”

“There is pride to be had in any kind of mastery,” Valory agreed.

Desperate to change the subject, Arden switched tacks. “ _Almost_ any kind of mastery, my Lord,” he corrected.

“Oh?”

“I’m not sure what to say about those who learn all of the little ways to use their talent to infuriate or play tricks on others,” he smiled. “Rumor was that you achieved such mastery as a young man.”

Valory’s brows rose. “They were still talking about that when you were a child? I suppose I achieved mastery indeed, then.”

“I’m not sure I would call lifting up the skirts of your mother the Queen’s ladies in waiting ‘mastery’, my Lord,” Arden grinned.

“Ah, but I was very proud of myself,” Valory said, eliciting guffaws from Niko who clapped his back happily.

“Always the charmer,” Imran rolled his eyes.

“I was eleven,” Valory defended. “I was too young to care what was beneath the skirts, and their reactions were more than entertaining enough to justify the punishment.”

Imran snorted. “Too _young_ to care what was beneath the skirts. Of course, sir.” Valory shot him a warning look.

Niko hadn’t picked up on the innuendo. “Started early, did you sire?” he said conspiratorially.

“You could say that,” Valory replied with a tight smile.

“Prepare to tack!” Jonah called once more, sparing Valory the rest of the conversation. He hurried towards the lazy sheet, not noticing the contemplative look Arden sent after him.

“Ready to tack?”

Arden shook his head. Just like him to misinterpret a simple phrase purely because of his love of words and all of their double meanings. It wouldn’t do to think such things about his Prince, after all. “Ready to tack!” he called, slipping the lock off the staysail sheet.

“Tacking!”

…

Arden’s cabin looked exactly as he’d been led to believe: lined with bookshelves and overgrown with volumes, maps, charts, and reams of paper. Valory wondered whether inviting himself to sup with the sailor had been as impolite as he’d feared – he had no idea where they would put the plates. A sleepy ginger tabby eyed Valory from Arden’s bunk. It had stretched itself over several religious texts and a sheaf of painstakingly neat notes in what Valory assumed was Arden’s own hand.

He peered at the texts, leafing through the topmost volume as best as the cat would permit. He recognized it as one of the Eastern Scriptures: the Book of Fángon. Below it another text lay open. This one he didn’t recognize – moreover, it was written in Sarian.

The door opened behind him and Arden stepped in, moving gracefully with _Windjammer_ ’s rolls to place two plates of stew atop a chart on the edge of his desk. Valory pulled his hand back from the books, guilty at being caught.

“That’s the Book of Oreler. Interesting stuff,” Arden remarked, clearing room on the desk so they could eat comfortably. He perched on the edge of his sea chest, leaving the room’s lone chair for the Prince.

“You read Sarian?”

“Can’t you?” Arden asked, tipping their grog rations into a set of pewter mugs.

“I can, though I doubt I would bend my tentative grasp of their written language to studying Sarian religious texts,” he admitted.

“That’s a shame. The Book of Oreler has a fascinating take on the end of the Age of Gods and the Banishment of Zathár.” Arden handed the mug and a spoon to the Prince who had since taken up the small wooden chair and begun breaking their bread.

“I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me that I might gain from studying the history of a deity that is not mine – though I’ll allow that this was probably short-sighted on my part.”

“It was,” Arden nodded. After a moment his eyes grew wide. “My Lord, forgive my impertinence—”

Valory held up a hand. “Please, none of that. Speak candidly, I beg of you. And haven’t I asked you to call me by my name?”

“My Lord Valory,” Arden bowed his head. Valory sighed, hiding his amused smile behind a piece of freshly baked bread. “Oreler – Oreler is not one of our Gods, true, but Lars is a devout worshipper of his and the fish nearly leap out of the ocean and onto his spear. Saria is protected by Oreler and his Blessing, after all, just as Illen and her Blessing watch over us.”

“You don’t suppose that his fishing prowess would come from the watchful eye of Ranael? Oceanic fishermen choose to pray to him instead,” Valory noted.

“Well, no. It’s not that Sarian’s don’t worship Ranael, but matters of husbandry, harvesting, and the hunt are Oreler’s domain,” Arden shrugged. “Appeal as I might to the god of the sea, I am still an abysmal fisherman.”

“You fish?”

“I enjoy free diving, and often take a spear with me or accompany Lars as he hunts. My contributions are few, however. As I said: it is not Oreler who gave me my gift.”

“Why study the Book of Oreler, then?”

“I have read all of the Eastern Scriptures – those recognized by Oceanic clergy, and those not. You can call it curiosity, I suppose.”

Valory considered his point, swallowing a large spoonful of Ehrin’s stew. “This is delicious.”

“Isn’t it?” Arden agreed. “We are all spoiled by Ehrin’s hand in the galley.”

“Evidently so.” Valory took another bite. “So tell me, you’ve read the Book of Arrar?”

“In the original Dramorian, no less. Arrar seems a bit of a demanding God. Does your Lieutenant still worship him?”

“He does – he says his prayers at sunrise and sunset. These days he seems to be more partial to Illen and Fángon, though I doubt we’ll ever see him kneel at Ranael’s altar.”

“Too much of a desert dweller to cow to the God of the sea?”

“Certainly.”

“I would have thought, then, that he would find worship of Illen and Fángon distasteful.”

Valory shrugged. “Their power in our lands and amongst our people is undeniable. Besides, I think Imran rather likes the story – brother and sister, guardians of the afterlife.”

“Some texts paint them as lovers rather than siblings,” Arden put in.

“That would be a terrible trial, I imagine – only able to see one another in passing as Illen bears the souls of the worthy across the ocean, and Fángon drags the souls of the damned down to the abyss.”

The two men shuddered at the mention of the locker – the final resting place of all evil souls – and touched their foreheads in reflex.

“Does he believe, then, that Illen will one day bear him eastward? I know that some Dramorians think instead that Arrar will carry them up to the heavens when they pass on.”

“I don’t know,” Valory admitted. “Imran is a very private man. I do know that he deems Fángon responsible for sequestering demons, devils, and the like. He is very devout in his offerings to Fángon. More so that many of our own countrymen, in fact.”

“Do you suppose that’s because his people would have a far stronger memory of the horrors wrought by the demon Zathár before he was banished to the locker? Imran surely would know that it is Fángon’s power alone that keeps him there.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. He’ll hardly speak the demon’s name, though, except under great duress. I suppose Dramorians are all superstitious about such matters. After all, the prophecy in the Book of Fángon states that it is the call of one of Zathár’s own that would recall him from the depths. Imagine bringing about the Reckoning purely by accident!”

Arden allowed a small smile at the absurdity of the idea, but his eyes were troubled. “Talk of Zathár will not go over well with sailors these days – not with the sudden reappearance of creatures of the deep.  I have been trying to complete my collection of the Eastern Scriptures for some time now. All I lack is the Book of Zathár, but . . .”

“You would possess the book of the damned?” Valory asked, brow raised.

“For the sake of better understanding our ancient enemy and those few who still worship him – no more. I assure you of that, my Lord. Valory. My Lord Valory.”

Valory nodded. “Of course – I mean no slight to your character. Surely such inquiries have not been well received, though.”

“In past years I was able to come by bits and pieces . . . second-hand accounts and translations, mostly. I’ve never been far enough inland to find much more. Now I dare not even ask.” Arden’s cheeks colored. “Well, to be honest, Callum forbade me ask after I was thrown out of a tavern for saying Zathár’s name aloud some months back.”

Valory let out a snort of laughter. “That must have been some night.”

“It’s not funny, my Lord – Bertha dragged me out into the street by my ear like a misbehaving child.”

“Bertha of the Fluke and Fiddle? On Kilcoran?”

“The same,” Arden confirmed, coloring further, although the blush was mostly hidden by the burn he had managed to acquire during that day’s sail.

“Perhaps she might forgive the transgression upon your return to Kilcoran. I have a fierce hankering for one of her home brews.”

“Good, aren’t they?” Arden asked, touching his cheek as if to confirm that he was still blushing.

“You’re red from this day’s burn as well,” Valory said, stifling his impulse to reach up and touch the pink skin stretching across the bridge of Arden’s nose.

“Let none call me a recipient of Arrar’s Blessing,” Arden sighed, prodding at the burn while he eyed Valory in turn. “I envy your complexion, my Lord.”

Valory snorted. “I’m sunburnt as well, you just can’t see it. Thank my Midlander mother.”

“Some days I wonder whether or not I should defect to Dramor, if only to gain their immunity to the sun’s rays.”

“I don’t think it works quite like that,” Valory smiled, “else Imran would be burnt to bits, and possibly even possessed of an enchantment.”

“I know that, my Lord,” Arden scoffed. Mirth, however, soon won over his countenance. “If Illen’s Blessing extended to those swearing fealty to Oceana and not merely to those of Oceanic blood, what do you suppose Imran’s enchantment might be?”

Valory laughed at the thought. “Oh, Gods. A firestarter, perhaps? They’re passing common and he’d like that.”

“That would round things out amongst the four of you,” Arden offered, mopping up the last of the stew with a piece of bread.

“I couldn’t imagine him with an enchantment, to be honest. He’s too . . .”

“Dramorian?”

“I suppose that’s the only way to put it. Then again I imagine that his attitude towards our enchantments mirrors the annoyance we feel when we are all sun-red and sweating and he looks no worse for the wear.”

“Perks of the Sun God’s blessing. We don’t see many of his ilk down here. How did you wind up with a Dramorian, anyway?”

“He defected,” Valory shrugged. “He used to be one of the sultan’s assassins. He spent time in Oceana under the guise of a diplomat. The higher he rose within the Dramorian military, however, the more disillusioned he became. He operated as a double agent for a while. One day some years ago – I know not what happened to prompt this, as he will not speak of it – he asked for an audience with my father. He offered a full confession of his deeds in front of my father, Siath, and I. He swore his fealty to Oceana knowing full well that if any of us didn’t take him at his word, it would have meant his head.”

“He had a great deal of faith in you,” Arden murmured.

“Perhaps. Perhaps he was simply out of options. Either way when I received the order to form this unit, Imran seemed a logical choice of a second. He has a unique field of expertise, and is very good at what he does.”

“And the others?”

“Gabe and Little were amongst a score of volunteers. They were chosen for their enchantments as much as their other abilities.”

“You needed a Healer and an Empath?”

“Yes and no. I needed a Healer, of course, and Little is strong enough, but – it was more a matter of finding someone whose signature didn’t drive me to distraction.”

“You have that problem as well?” Arden asked. It was not very common, but he had experienced his fair share of dissonant signatures.

“More so than others, I’m lead to believe. Fortunately Little is a decent match. On rare occasion – granted, mostly when completely unnecessary – my enchantment amplifies his.”

“Uncommon,” Arden noted.

“Yes, though mostly useless. He cannot control the timing. He does well enough, though, and to be fair we aren’t injured very often.”

“Thankfully,” Arden added. “And Gabriel – he is very strong, if he refused to be dealt into a game of Ante. Is he a true telepath?”

“A minor one, though I am told that he can often hear Imran’s internal monologue as clear as a bell, since the man cannot seem to figure out how to protect his thoughts as the rest of us do.”

“That must make Imran crazy.”

“You have no idea,” Valory grinned.

“I’ve only met one other strong Empath before,” Arden mused.

“Rare,” Valory agreed. “Even rarer than yours, I’d wager. I’ve met but a handful of others who’ve had a second talent, barring Elementalists. It seems common enough for them to work with more than one substance.”

Arden gave Valory a strange look, opening his mouth to reply. He seemed to think better of whatever he was going to say and shut it again. Instead, he stacked their plates and pushed them aside. “Do you find complimentary enchantments often?”

“I would it were so,” Valory shook his head. “My mother and brother fit me quite well – as do you, of course. The Master Healer of Armathia and I get on, along with a few others. I suppose your father and Verne have always matched me well, but their signatures aren’t strong enough for it to matter overmuch. And you?”

“I’ve been luckier,” Arden admitted. “I can get on with most, although there have been a few notable exceptions. I have only met a few as consonant as you, my Lord, but that might have to do with the strength of your talent.”

“And yours as well, I’d wager,” Valory nodded, absentmindedly fingering his talisman. Talk of enchantments often made for awkward conversation, but he was glad they brought it up. He and Arden had an exceptionally strong match, and discussing it directly meant that they were both forced to acknowledge it.

Arden looked contemplative, staring directly into the flickering light of the lantern as he sipped his grog. He seemed older by candlelight – the shadows clung to the faint wrinkles that were beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes. His fingers were tapping an unconscious rhythm out on the handle of his mug. After a moment, Valory noticed that the candle was flickering in time with his tapping. He wondered whether Arden even realized what he was doing.

Valory found himself feeling sorry that their meal was done. He hadn’t expected to enjoy Arden’s company quite so much, but now regretted not having an excuse to tarry for longer. He inwardly chastised himself. He had the opportunity to make a friend and ally in the likeminded Steward’s son; it would be folly to jeopardize that by letting the attraction he felt for the man rule his actions.

He pulled his eyes away from Arden, aware that he was staring again. He forced himself to focus on the books lining the built-in shelves above the desk instead. Though the spines were partially obscured by a rail that held them in place, Valory recognized some of the titles. They were organized by topic, starting with science and moving through history, literature, and the arts. He felt Arden’s grey gaze turn to regard him just as he began puzzling over the contents of a thick folio of paper on the end of the shelf.

Arden watched the Prince for a moment, wondering what he thought of the ‘Ship’s Library’. It was an odd quirk for a sailor to possess so many volumes, though the look of concentration on Valory’s face indicated that he was more interested than amused. Despite the serious expression, he appeared far less severe than he was wont to do, perhaps because his nearly-black hair was worn loose rather than pulled back into its customary queue. His intense, hooded stare was directed at the corner of the bookshelf. The angle allowed Arden a good view of the silver-tinged scar that swept down the side of his face. Arden wanted to know the story behind it, but couldn’t bring himself to ask. He had a feeling that the scar had everything to do with the strange energy surrounding Valory’s enchantment.

He knew he was staring, and forced himself to look away. It was impolite, for one, and he worried what the Prince would make of it. Arden stood up and turned his attention to his sea chest which he dug through impatiently. He shook his head. He had nearly forgotten to offer Valory the finest treat in his possession.

“Lose something?” Valory asked, glancing back toward Arden once he was certain that the other man had looked his fill.

“You’ll see,” Arden replied playfully, brushing aside articles of clothing and unmarked bundles until he reached his prize. Lifting the jar up with both hands, he closed the lid of the chest with one foot.

“Is that what I think it is?” Valory asked.

“If you’re thinking about sweetened mangos soaked in the finest dark rum the islands have to offer, then yes, my Lord,” Arden replied, uncapping the jar with a flourish and tipping it towards Valory. “Ehrin spoils us terribly with all of her little cakes and treats, but . . .” he shrugged.

“They aren’t Armathian desserts,” Valory completed.

“It’s one of my guilty pleasures. I missed it so much that I managed – please don’t even ask how – to acquire the palace’s recipe.”

Valory selected a slice and took a bite, shutting his eyes in bliss. “I’ve missed these as well. What is it that makes our recipe so good?”

“Our recipe calls for ripe mangos from a very specific grove in Kythria. The taste has something to do with the quality of the soil.”

Valory laughed, meeting Arden’s amused gaze. “So you _did_ take Ehrin’s prized mangos, then.”

Arden smiled fetchingly, taking a slice for himself before capping the jar. “You won’t tell, will you? My Lord?”

“I should hardly like to impugn the honor of the House of Stewards, Lord Arden,” he murmured. Arden made a faint noise of protest at the use of his title. “My apologies, do you not want to be continuously addressed by your formal title in such an informal setting – by one who seeks your friendship, no less?”

“Alright,” Arden conceded, “ _Valory_.” He had to admit, it was thrilling to be called by his real name – and to call the Prince by his in turn.

Valory leaned forward. “While you’re being so cooperative – call me Val.”

“Val,” Arden said, experimentally. “I’m glad you look so pleased with yourself, for I’m certain that several of my ancestors are turning in their graves this very moment, to hear me take such liberties.”

“Let them spin, then,” Valory replied, holding Arden’s gaze.

Arden swallowed his last piece of mango, feeling a shiver run down his spine. “I suppose they already are, if they knew half of what I’ve been up to these twenty odd years.”

“Such as constructing the Eastern World’s first floating library?” Valory teased, leaning back in his chair again.

Arden felt the tension leave the cabin as the conversation switched to a more impersonal topic. He sighed. “Forget my ancestors – my father would be aghast.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh,” Arden said, waving a dismissive hand towards his books, “my father always made it clear what he thought of literary pursuits. Even if I managed something notable he’d find a way to see failure in it.”

“Such as?” Valory prompted.

“I—” Arden sighed. “You’ll think it silly as well, I wager.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” Valory countered. Arden had tried to brush it off as nothing, but Valory could see the old hurt lingering just below the surface. It seemed as though Arden had always taken his father’s caustic criticisms to heart.

“When I was learning the history of the Eastern Scriptures – an assignment from one of my tutors – I came across some of the lesser-known verses of the Chronicles. Have you ever read it?”

“Not in its entirety, of course – I imagine that would be impossible – but I’d wager that I know most of the verses you speak of. It _is_ the greatest epic poem ever written, after all,” Valory smiled.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have been the only young man to find myself enamored with it. Such an amazing adventure, the cast of characters, the richness of the history . . .”

“It’s one of my favorites as well,” Valory said. “It’s appealing to think about how my ancestors walked these lands alongside the Gods, fictional though some of the verses may be.”

“I don’t doubt it’s embellished, but the general premise is historically proven. It _was_ Eramen who united the provinces of Oceana after Zathár’s evil empire fell, after all.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you would be so drawn to the tale of a man who governed with his sword,” Valory admitted.

“But his rule was tempered with intelligence, grace, mercy – enough so that Illen gave his fledgling nation her Blessing,” Arden pointed out. “Besides, he and his second did have such wonderful adventures.”

“I was always partial to the verses about their journey over the mountains.”

“Or when he dressed as a beggar in order to walk a mile in another’s shoes.”

“When he and Drand fought the queen kraken, sending it back to the deep,” Valory smiled.

“Appropriate, these days,” Arden noted grimly.

“Indeed. So you came across the epic, you were saying?”

“Yes. Of course I had heard recitations, but they’re always the same few verses about Eramen battling side-by-side with the Gods during the Banishment of Zathár. The more I read, the more interested in the epic I became. There are so many authors of so many different verses! It seemed as though every tutor I asked had a score of new ones that I hadn’t yet heard. I decided that I was going to collect all of them for the palace library’s reference – the first complete collection in the Eastern World. I suppose I also knew that my father was partial to the Chronicles, and hoped that I might present him with the fruits of my labor.”

“I would I had known of your compilation. I would have enjoyed reading it,” Valory said earnestly.

Arden’s expression was unreadable. “My father did not share your opinion. He thought it a waste of time.”

Valory snorted. “Hardly.”

“Well – you are welcome to it then, Val,” Arden said, stretching up to grab the folio on the corner of the bookshelf.

“You completed the project?” he asked, regarding the bound stack of paper with curiosity.

“It seemed a silly thing to allow my father’s disdain to halt my progress,” Arden shrugged. “I figured that even if he wasn’t interested, I still was, and so it was worth completing.”

“Did you elect to include the contributions from the isles?”

“Of course – I said I aimed for a complete set, did I not?”

“You did, though many scholars disregard those versions of the story – especially those from Kilcoran – on account of the implication that Eramen and Drand shared more than friendship.”

“Implication?” Arden asked, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Fair enough – some of the verses are quite . . . obvious,” Valory corrected.

“They are, but who am I to decide which verses to include or exclude? It would be one thing if they were descriptive for vulgarity’s sake, but that isn’t their aim. The Kilcoranian verses try to express something beautiful about life through their portrayal of the loyalty, love, and deep friendship between Eramen and Drand. And so what if they describe physical love as well?”

“Not everyone would see it that way.”

“And their lives are poorer and meaner for it, I wager,” Arden replied.

Valory wondered whether or not Arden’s comment was directed at his father. He decided it would be best not to ask for clarification, and turned his attention instead to the collection. He leafed through the first few pages which listed the verses by name, author, and origin. “You’ve done a thorough job, it seems.”

“It took months to get my hands on all of those sources. This is everything I could find, arranged in something resembling chronological order.”

“Even the ones from Kilcoran?”

“Even the ones from Kilcoran. After my father demonstrated that he wouldn’t be reading it, I figured that my first priority would be the comprehensive nature of the collection – regardless of content. You can imagine my horror when I realized that he had been keeping up with my extracurricular reading,” Arden smiled.

“What did he say?”

“Something to the effect of, _‘I know about those Kilcoranian poetry books you’re hoarding, you dirty little pervert’_.”

Valory laughed. “Ever to the point, your father.”

“Isn’t he just?” Arden smiled wryly. Though he rarely volunteered information about his family to others, there was something easy about talking to Valory. They shared a history. The Prince knew his family, his home, and Armathia in a way that meant that there was no need to preface each of his statements with an explanation.

Valory reminded him of the good bits of home, the bits that he missed. He had forgotten what it was like to share stimulating conversation – especially with one who was as learned as Valory. Such company was rare, especially amongst sailors. It made Arden hope that this wasn’t the last meal they would take together, nor the last conversation they would share.

“I suppose Lord Miran prefers the sets in which Eramen woos his beloved queen,” Valory said after a pause.

“A fact which he did not keep secret.”

Valory shut the folio, fingertips toying with the edges. “I look forward to reacquainting myself with the epic. It has been many years since I last read it. Are you sure it’s alright for me to borrow it?”

“Of course. I have it memorized, anyway.”

Valory knew that Arden had such an ability, but felt himself leveling an incredulous stare at the thick folio anyway. “You memorized the Chronicles?”

Arden shrugged. “I memorize everything I read, whether I want to or not.”

“That’s impressive,” Valory managed.

The ship’s bell rang. Arden stood. “Begging your leave, I’ve a mind to oversee the changing of the watch. I hope you find the collection to your liking.”

“I’m sure I will,” Valory assured him, scooping up the folio and moving to follow Arden out of his cabin.

Once in the companionway, Arden shut and dogged the door. He started towards the stern ladder before stopping, turning to regard the Prince once more. A slow smile spread across his face as their eyes met. “Take your time reading it, Val. I look forward to hearing any critiques you might offer – my tutors always took pains to remind me that Adrianth’s sons were no slouches when it came to intellectual fortitude. I suppose that might work to my advantage in this. And of course – let me know which verses _you_ prefer.”

With those words the sailor disappeared up the aftermost companionway, leaving Valory standing silently, considering, turning the folio over in his hands as _Windjammer_ swayed around him.

…

The sound of clashing metal roused Valory from slumber. He sat up with a start, fingers clenched around the dagger that always lay nestled beneath his pillow. The fo’c’sle was empty but for Gabe’s prone form, an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sunlight.

Valory swung down from his bunk as the unmistakable sounds of combat rang above him. He had fallen asleep after watch fully clothed, it seemed, and felt a bit groggy still. Forcing himself to alertness, he shoved the dagger into his boot and pulled himself onto the ladder.

He supposed that of all the things he had expected to see, Imran and Arden sparring wasn’t one of them.

Valory was no stranger to Imran’s graceful form, executing perfect attacks and counterattacks with his deadly curved blades. Arden fought two-handed as well, the brutal precision of his cutlass backed by his long rig knife. Though taller and broader than Imran, Arden’s light weaponry allowed him to move just as quickly and strike with force.

Valory hoisted himself up on deck, not taking his eyes off of the sparring men. Arden met Imran’s blades parry for parry, and pressed the advantage of fighting on his home turf by taking the offensive in time with _Windjammer_ ’s rolls. Valory hadn’t expected him to be so good a swordsman, though he supposed that he should have been more prepared for another one of Arden’s surprises. He took a seat next to Jonah, who had an array of weaponry and whetstones laid out before him. Jonah was watching the spar with the same avidity that Valory felt. The men were evenly matched, and there was no telling who would come out on top.

It was Imran who called the match in Arden’s favor a few minutes later, bowing out with good grace. He hadn’t been able to keep up with _Windjammer_ ’s movements, and knew that he had been bested.

“On dry land next time?” Arden suggested.

“Yes, and then we will see who yields,” Imran said with a sharp smile.

“I’ll put a coin on the Dramorian,” Jonah said. Imran rolled his eyes, resigned to his nickname.

“Betting against your own?” Arden asked.

Jonah grinned. “Of course not, Jack. Just trying to give you a little motivation.”

Ehrin appeared out of the midships companionway with a plate of biscuits, the contents of which were snatched up before she had gone a handful of steps. With a bemused smile she dumped the crumbs overboard before setting the plate down on the housetop and perching next to Jonah. “May I?” she asked, gesturing towards one of the whetstones.

“Help yourself,” Jonah replied through a mouthful of biscuit, spraying crumbs everywhere.

“Ugh,” Ehrin muttered, wiping the crumbs off of her arm with one hand while reaching for a whetstone with the other. Valory watched in surprise as she unwound the apron-like skirt she wore, revealing a neat pair of leggings, soft leather boots, and a cutlass slung low about her waist. Arden’s early words came back to him then: ‘ _Even our cook can fight.’_

Valory ate in silence as Arden set down his cutlass and took up Imran’s blades. He tested their balance before moving into an offensive stance.

Imran clicked his tongue. “Not like that. You have already begun as if you will attack right-handed. Did I ever come at you one hand at a time?”

“Fair enough,” Arden conceded, altering his stance. “Your movements were so precisely symmetrical, though – I can’t imagine being able to use equal force with both blades.”

“Like this,” Imran said, arranging Arden so his forearms were crossed, vambraces touching and blades pointing up and away from one another. “This is the first pose.” He continued with instructions, seeming surprised yet pleased when Arden was unfazed by his occasional slip back into Dramorian. Poking and prodding Arden into place, he asked, “Do you understand? This is hard for me in Oceanic.”

“Well enough, yes,” Arden replied.

Imran frowned. “I will show you.” Stepping into position as though he held a blade in each hand, he demonstrated a simple sequence, arms perfect mirror images of one another as they swept through a series of attacks and counterattacks.

Arden’s answering attempt was stilted and his wrists didn’t turn and snap quite in tandem, but his aptitude for two-hand fighting was clear. They continued like that – Imran stepping in to comment or make occasional adjustments to the stance – through a few of the easiest poses. Valory, Jonah, and Ehrin watched with rapt attention as Arden began to grow comfortable with the basic forms. As time went by he turned his forearms and wrists over more easily. Though they did not strike with the same precision as Imran’s, it was clear that he would soon be a worthy opponent with the Dramorian blades.

“You are a quick study,” Imran proclaimed after nearly an hour’s work. Arden was sweating and red-faced, but seemed almost reluctant to stop. He handed the curved blades back to Imran with a smile.

“It was only the basic stance,” he demurred, wiping his forehead off with a shirt sleeve.

“That is true, but if you wish to continue, I think you will be competent by the time we reach Armathia,” Imran replied.

“I would like that very much,” Arden nodded, “but what can I possibly offer you in return for your time and patience?”

“You are doing enough, by allowing me to share one of the few good things left to my mother country.”

Arden’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he was able to find words. “Is that why you left?” He desperately hoped that he hadn’t misunderstood Imran’s imperfect Oceanic.

Imran glanced over the four curious faces before him. He never spoke of his defection from Dramor. “Yes. By the end I was ashamed to be born to the Dramorian nobility. I did not want to be a part of it.” He ran a finger along the dull edge of one of his blades before sheathing them. “At least the art of the twin blades is a thing I can take pride in.”

“I know that the caste system is far more rigid in Dramor, but I have a feeling that’s not all you’re referring to,” Arden said.

Imran regarded the Steward’s son with caution. It would be easy to gloss over the shameful practices that he had alluded to; he was accustomed to dodging questions about his defection to Oceana. He opened his mouth to deliver his usual words about avarice and exploitation of the common people, but changed his mind.

“You know, I am sure, that there are those in Dramor who would neglect Arrar’s temples. They bring their tribute elsewhere,” he said.

“I did, yes. As a young man I learned that there were a handful of cult-like clans of worshippers who still paid tribute to Zathár,” Arden replied.

“And what were you taught?”

“That alone. I suppose I never explored the idea much; it made sense to me that they still wandered your homeland. Dramor was the demon’s ancient seat, after all, and fought in his name at the end of the last age,” he replied.

“The Damned One’s influence is stronger than that.”

Arden cocked his head, working out what Imran was trying to say. “What do you mean by that?”

“It is not spoken of openly – not even within Dramor. I was born as a . . . I suppose it would be like the title a Duke holds in this country. I was a younger son, like you, and I had a choice between the church and the military. I chose the military, my brother chose the church.”

Valory leaned forward, eager to hear his Lieutenant’s words. He had heard many variations on this story throughout the past decade, but this version was new to his ears. “You have more than one brother, don’t you?” he asked.

“I have three. One is younger. Two are older.”

This was news to Valory. “You don’t speak of them.”

“It is an old wound.” Imran made a face. “This is not an easy thing for me to say, much less in Oceanic. I think that perhaps all of the honesty of this past week has been contagious,” he continued, an attempt at a joke, gesturing towards Valory and Arden.

“If you don’t want to speak of it . . .”

“I never spoke before because of shame. I am Dramorian, and there was a time that this made me proud. I am Dramorian, and many of the people of my country are good and decent. I feel that I must call myself Dramorian. What else could I be? But I am ashamed to call myself Dramorian because of what I know.”

“Imran—”

“I will speak of it now. As I said, it is an old wound and it is time to give it air.” He frowned, realizing that the Dramorian expression did not translate, before shaking his head. It didn’t matter. “When I came of age I learned that the Damned One’s seat of power still stands. It is tended by the priests of his order. Few live there now, but every year many go to visit, to worship, to see if it is their call which will bring about his return.”

“That many?” Arden asked. “But surely such a thing must be frowned upon.”

Imran rolled his shoulders. “For a long time, yes, but things are changing.” He took a breath. “I learned that my great-grandfather ran from home to join one of these ‘cults’, as you called them, Lord Arden. They say he had a way with words, and when he returned to Indar, he began to . . . what is the word?”

“Proselytize?” Arden offered.

“Yes. To convert the others. He spoke of power and glory, and caught the ear of powerful men. Since then the pilgrimage to Arrynmathár has grown bigger than you can imagine.” He cast his eyes down. “Worship of the demon has infected my family ever since. Even the line of sultans has not been immune.”

“I knew that things had become difficult along Dramor’s side of the border as well, but I hadn’t given thought to worship of Zathár being at the heart of the matter.”

“There are those who do not agree with worshippers of the demon, and bring tribute only to Arrar. Some have even said they wish to see the sultan and my father unseated.” Imran blew out a long breath. “My family is not reasonable in this matter. They have used force to silence these voices.”

“Extremism,” Arden said, as Valory asked,

“How has it not come to light in Oceanic court that Dramor is falling prey to radical politics?”

“Diplomats are more reasonable men, moderates. When I left there were still some in court who had hope. It was a quiet hope, for as the radicals grew in power such things were dangerous to say aloud.”

“Dramor has left permanent diplomatic office in Armathia vacant for some time,” Valory frowned. “Dispatches from the sultan claimed that they didn’t find the resource expenditure necessary in a time of peace—”

“That is, as you say, shit of the bull. You did not tell me this.”

“If I thought the information irrelevant, it’s because I didn’t realize that a radical faction had overwhelmed the Dramorian government,” Valory countered. “Lester, our own diplomat, has been remiss in communicating this, especially if it has been going on for as long as you say. If I had known—”

“You would have told your father, and what would he have done? Stopped all trade? Sent more men to the border? My family has perpetrated violence against our own people, especially those in rural settlements upon the border, for they are most opposed to worship of the demon. An embargo would hurt them worst of all. The common people should not be punished for this.”

Valory’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It explains what happened in Anaphe all those generations ago quite neatly, however.”

“You learned about this when you reached your majority, you said?” Arden asked.

“Learned, no. Began to understand, perhaps. My older brother was ordained around that time. It was not in Arrar’s name.” Imran hung his head in shame. “There was a time when I thought his path noble, but I have since come to see things in a different way. He is in Arrynmathár now, a priest of some high rank.”

After a moment of silence, Valory spoke. “Why worship Zathár? Don’t they know? Don’t they remember? The demon lord enslaved the Eastern World, kept its peoples in a state of continuous impoverishment and warfare. Our lives meant nothing to him,” he spat.

“Yet the noble ranks of the desert clans – those who swore themselves to the demon’s service – enjoyed power and wealth beyond their wildest dreams,” Imran whispered. “They know and remember that as well.”

“Fool’s gold,” Valory swore.

“Yes. But it is no coincidence that Oceana rose when the Damned One and the desert people fell. Dramor formed as a broken nation, a shadow of its former glory. Arrar bestowed upon us the paltriest of Blessings, almost as punishment for our association with the demon and his reign of horror.”

“And the reparations they were forced to pay after the war were no small thing,” Arden reminded them. “Their treasury was bankrupted, military dismantled, cities abandoned. All that, and they are still landlocked. They have fertile lands and avenues of trade, but in no way were they able to recover from Zathár’s devastation as Oceana and Saria did.”

“That was centuries ago,” Valory argued.

“Anger over it lingers,” Imran replied. “There are many Dramorian nobles who think we were wronged. My father and the sultan are among them. They would see the desert people restored as the greatest race in the East. They believe our Gods to be false. They believe it is the demon and Dramor who have been wronged.”

“But by trying to bring about the Reckoning they are damning their own people to slavery,” Valory argued.

“Do you suppose that matters to some of these men?” Imran asked.

“The plight of the common man is oft overlooked even here, my Lord,” Arden said.

“This is more than overlooking the troubles of the peasantry out of ignorance or apathy – this is the willful betrayal of their subjects,” Valory contended.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Imran spat. “My own brother, Valory – my own Gods-damned brother would rather spend his days worshiping the demon and sweeping the sand off of his forsaken altar than serving his own people. Do you see how shamed and disgusted I am to have come from that?”

“Imran—”

“The Eastern Scriptures say that when the Reckoning comes, the Damned One will tempt those who would listen with promises of great power and eternal life, for if he wins, he will reign supreme in the world of Gods and of men. All will be his. That is what they want. That is why they have been worshipping his memory for hundreds of years. They will give up anything to have it.”

“You do not have to feel shame on their behalf,” Arden implored.

Imran shook his head, disgusted. “The sultan, my father, my brothers – they worship a false god who raised his hand to Arrar. They would bring war and dishonor to their people, would rather live in an eternal hell with the Damned One than give themselves to Arrar’s arms. I knew this when I left for Oceana the first time.”

“Is that why you defected?” Valory asked.

“It took time. I did not want to defect. I wanted to help, to have our leaders talk, to create a more moderate ruling class within Dramor. But over the years I came to learn that everything I knew was a lie. I was told that Anaphe was our ancestral land, but that is a lie. I was told that all Godly power should be ours to possess, but it is not. I was told that the Oceanic are slave lords, but you are not. I was told that even the common Oceanic man was touched by the power of evil gods – lies, all. Yet I knew that, given the chance, the sultan would topple your father and subjugate your people – good people, no better and no worse than my own subjects – to a terrible fate.”

“That must have been difficult,” Arden murmured.

“The time came when my father wanted to take me to Arrynmathár to pledge myself to the Damned One. I could not. I will not help them with their demon worship. I would rather be a traitor to my class, my family, and my sultan than a traitor to my people.”

“That was when you sought audience with my father,” Valory completed.

Imran inclined his head. “And he was merciful – more merciful than my own would have been. I have told you that I have no love lost for my mother country. Now you understand why. I hope you do not think less of me for coming from such filth.”

“Is that why you always resisted my inquiries into your past?” Valory asked.

“We are judged by the caliber of our families,” Imran shrugged. “Would you have trusted me if I told you that my father was a radical, a worshipper of the demon?”

Valory opened and shut his mouth. “That is neither here nor there.”

“You would not have,” Imran sighed. “You would not have been able to help the suspicion. I had been a double agent in the past – what would stop me from making false claims for the future, and infiltrating your ranks in the name of the demon?”

“Why tell me at all if you are so shamed by the admission, and so fearful that I will turn my back on you?” Valory asked.

“We have fought together for years now. I think perhaps my actions can finally speak for themselves.”

Valory nodded. “They would have done long ago,” he answered. “I believe you, Imran. You must know that. I believe you and I trust you with my life.”

Imran gestured towards Arden, meeting the eyes of the High Steward’s son. “You already know why I did not speak. Another has already told you his reason for keeping secrets – albeit a different secret, albeit a different situation.”

“It’s difficult to come out with the truth, unprompted, after many years of falsehood,” Arden murmured, understanding.

“And you know that I lack the words, sometimes. Your language is so different from my mother tongue.”

Arden smiled. “I couldn’t for the life of me imagine being able to truly wrap my head around Dramorian without extensive use of reference books. Your vocabulary is many times the size of ours.”

“Yet words in Oceanic have multiple meanings,” Imran countered. “I have found myself quite good at delivering accidental insult through double-talk.”

“Imran is not very popular with courtiers – especially not the women,” Valory smirked.

Imran scowled at Valory, inwardly thankful for the change of topic. “Women speak in their own dialect. They grow annoyed with me when I do not understand them, and become even angrier with me when I ask Gabriel to tell me what they mean plainly.”

Jonah laughed out loud, pounding the deck. “I’ll give you a few pointers when we get to Old Town, Dramorian. There’s a great tavern for sport there. You’ll get to see me and the lads in action – learn from the best.”

Imran turned to Arden as if to verify the statement. “Don’t look at me,” Arden shrugged. “I let them chase skirts all they want – I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.”

Jonah snorted. Imran arched a brow. “Too old?” he asked.

“He’s forty-four,” Valory said. “Don’t let his enchantment fool you.”

Imran muttered something under his breath in Dramorian. Arden thought it sounded suspiciously like _‘Enchanted bastards.’_

“I wouldn’t take too many pointers from Jonah. For every willing barmaid in Old Town, there’s one who’s slapped him stupid,” Ehrin grinned.

“If they only knew what they were missing,” Jonah said smugly. “Don’t worry, Dramorian. We’ll have every barmaid in the tavern clamoring for a piece of you. You just wait.”

“One would be more than adequate, I think,” Imran frowned.

“Oh come on, nothing wrong with inviting a girl and her friend back to the _Windjammer_ for a spot of—”

“Jonah?” Arden interrupted.

“Yes sir?”

“Shut up,” Arden grinned.

“Of course, sir,” Jonah said, momentarily cowed. A moment later he looked up again, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “This one time – and Jack was there, so he can tell you it’s the Gods’ honest truth – I had these two birds sitting in my lap, pretty as a song, and –”

Arden let him go without interruption this time. The soldiers and sailors sat together, sharing jokes and bawdy tales, readying their blades and waiting for the watch to change. He put aside thoughts of Oceana’s ancient enemy for the time being. A small smile pulled at his lips. The next time he was back in Anaphe, he would have to thank the harbormaster. The man had recommended _Windjammer_ to the Prince, after all: a favor that he was appreciating more with each passing day.


	5. Chapter 5

_The Season of Storms  
Ranád the 8; 2421_

“Father has not said anything to me, yet. Nor to you. I wonder whether he plans on ignoring the question of suitors until we are too old to be considered marriageable,” Alicia sighed, tucking her feet under her skirts. She had assumed her usual position, perched on the window ledge.

“You reached your majority barely over a year ago. You have more than enough time,” Fiona replied, pulling the silver-backed brush through her long tresses.

“It would be unseemly for me to marry before you,” Alicia reminded her.

“You might want to resign yourself to unseemliness, sister-mine.”

Alicia frowned in response. “People would talk.”

“Perhaps I will spare you the trouble and give myself to Illen’s service,” Fiona mused.

“You would hate that, Fi.”

“I know,” Fiona sighed.

“Is he really so wonderful that you would give up everything for him? Everything that we have, everything that father has worked so hard for? I hear what the ladies say about the court in Armathia; some of the women have lovers on the side. They must keep it secret, of course, but—”

Fiona turned a mighty frown upon her younger sister. “You know very well that such things are not the way in Anaphe. We have Dramor to thank for that.”

“Then what, spinsterhood?” Alicia asked, sighing dramatically. “I had always thought that I might find a good, kind nobleman to marry . . . handsome, in the King’s good graces . . .”

“You’re of an age that you should abandon all of that girlish fancy. Women in our position marry men several years our senior – men who are giving our fathers the most trouble within the council chamber. Surely you know that by now.”

“ _You’re_ telling _me_ to abandon girlish fancy? If that is your wise council, then why do I see you strolling in the gardens arm-in-arm with Captain Malcolm every night?”

“I would renounce my rank and station and live the life of a soldier’s wife if I could. I hardly think that living the life of a commoner is fanciful.”

“The idea that you can live on love alone is fanciful,” Alicia replied peevishly. “If you think your position is restricted now, imagine how you would feel as the wife of a soldier.”

Fiona sighed. “Is it so wrong to wish for a little happiness?” She braided her hair quickly, looping it around her head and pinning it in place.

Alicia looked back at her, a hint of sadness lining her features. “I’m sorry, sister-mine. I should not take out my impatience on you. I have high hopes for marriage because I am not in your position. I have not already given my heart to a man I cannot have.”

“What makes a common man so very different from a nobleman, anyway? Malcolm . . . he has the strongest of spirits, the sturdiest of moral compasses. I would that you knew him better, Alicia. You would see how admirable and courageous he is. Far more so than any of the knights I have ever met, for all of their parentage and breeding.”

“He can turn a head, too,” Alicia admitted. Fiona smiled at her little sister, amusement bubbling within her.

“Don’t you look too closely, now. He’s spoken for,” she laughed.

“Oh come now, sister – don’t deny me that. So tall, broad-shouldered, that smile, those dark eyes . . .” Alicia teased.

“Stop it,” Fiona said, throwing a cushion at her.

“No wonder you drag him into the gardens – you want to hide him away and have him all to yourself,” Alicia laughed.

Fiona smiled at her younger sister, thankful for her gentle nature. “Come now you dreadful tease, would you like me to put up your hair as well?”

Alicia stretched down from the window ledge, sweeping towards the chair that Fiona had vacated. She dropped down unceremoniously, shaking out her long dark hair.

“What will you do, then?” Alicia finally asked as her sister gently brushed out her unruly curls.

“I don’t know,” Fiona whispered. “It has been a scant few months, yet I know in my heart that this is my path. He’s such a good man, Alicia – with such a noble heart. His men all adore him.”

“I know that,” Alicia nodded. The three sisters were all Empaths. They understood such things. “But . . . father?”

“There is nothing father can do,” Fiona shrugged. “His hands are as tied in the matter as mine. I cannot marry a commoner, and Malcolm’s status cannot be elevated by any man outside the line of the Kings.”

“Perhaps father might write for a royal pardon. He seems to like Malcolm enough,” Alicia suggested, aware that she was giving voice to fantasies.

“For what? Malcolm has served my father well, of course, but his service has not been so exceptional to merit knighting. Writing on my behalf would be folly.” Fiona sighed. “In faith I do not see a way out. I suppose that I have been happily living in limbo, with father too concerned with other matters to turn his eye to matters of betrothal.”

“Maybe he will have the chance to prove himself in combat,” Alicia offered.

“How so?” Fiona asked, eyeing her sister carefully.

“I’ve heard gossip about the shadow, more so than usual. Do you think there will be fighting with Dramor? Would it be here? It makes sense. We are the closest stronghold to the Borderlands.”

“There might be,” Fiona allowed. “Though I have complete faith in Malcolm, it would take an act of exceptional bravery to promote him thus. I do not know that he will have the opportunity, even if I believe him to have the mettle.”

“And who knows what war would bring,” Alicia replied with wisdom far beyond her years.

“My thoughts exactly, sister-mine.”

“Mother would have known what to do,” Alicia said sadly, sounding a mere seventeen once again.

“Yes, I suppose she would have,” Fiona murmured.

The door opened at that, revealing Alma’s small form. Her mousy brown locks were plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she puffed as though she had been running. A single glance at her let her older sisters know that something was terribly wrong.

“Fi . . . Alicia . . .” she panted.

“Alma? What is the matter? Come sister, sit,” Fiona said, moving to the girl’s side.

Alma shook her off, pulling her arm out of her oldest sister’s grip. “No. We have to go right now,” she said, urgently.

“Go where?”

“To the other wing. There’s something wrong with Father,” she had already started back towards the door, poised as if ready to take off.

“What?” Alicia asked, leaping to her feet.

“Come quickly,” Alma pleaded.

The three sisters exchanged a quick panicked look before Fiona, in a manner entirely unbefitting of a Steward’s daughter, took off running full tilt down the hallway. Her sisters followed mere steps behind. Within moments they had rounded the corner into the Steward’s wing and pushed their way through his sitting room and antechamber. Fiona grit her teeth as she realized that several councilors, servants, and physicians were all crowded around her father’s bed.

 _No_ , she thought, knowing the mood in the room to be a somber one. _No. Illen, please – not Father, too._

…

Valory leaned back against the foremast on a clear, beautiful night. The light wind had them making barely five knots even with all canvas run. _Windjammer_ swayed gently as she cut through the waves. Callum had given him permission to read on deck by lantern light on calm nights, an allowance that he planned on taking full advantage of.

He thumbed the pages of Arden’s collection slowly, reveling in the chance to reread the Chronicles from the beginning. Arden had dug up hundreds of verses that Valory had never read before, including entire story arcs about Eramen and Drand’s travels across the fledgling kingdom of Oceana. There were pages upon pages of verses penned about Eramen’s beloved Queen as well.  Valory was familiar with many of them, and enjoyed comparing the differences in verses from each province. Each set brought back memories of recitations he had heard in taverns, courts, and town squares across the kingdom.

There were the verses from Kilcoran, as well. Those brought back a different sort of memory. Valory well remembered the first commander he had served under; an army Captain with a stern demeanor and a gift with the longbow. Valory had become a fine archer under his tutelage, and had discovered the reason the man cultivated such a distant persona in front of his men.

Valory had been nearly twenty, then. Bryant was some fifteen odd years older.  They had spent much time together on a long campaign through the swamp lands on Oceana’s north-west border – enough time that certain habits and inclinations of theirs could not be kept secret. Valory was no innocent, of course, but Bryant had become a different sort of lover than those to which he had been accustomed. Until then, Valory had survived for years on drunken fumbles in dark alleyways. Bryant showed him the value of companionship, of affection, of kindness.

Each night they took dinner together in the Captain’s tent along with all of the other officers. Afterward there was drink and chatter – both campaign-related and not. The other officers would leave one by one, allowing the King’s son plenty of time to talk strategy with his mentor. To this day Valory could scarcely believe that they hadn’t been found out. Willful ignorance had always amazed him.

Bryant was a well-read man, intelligent, with a quiet gravity behind all of his words. He had been very fond of the Kilcoranian verses; Valory’s exposure to them came during those nights on campaign when Bryant read them aloud. He had a very pleasant reading voice, Valory remembered – deep and melodic. Sharing the verses had been a preamble for greater intimacies, both physical and not. Valory had never before taken a lover in the true sense of the word – had never spent time in another’s arms afterward, had never shared laughter and secret smiles during daylight hours. He had been grieved when duty forced them to part ways after the campaign, though he was ever-grateful for the gift that Bryant had given him: a deeper understanding of and hope for what could be.

Valory sighed. Bryant had not been blessed with an enchantment, and had passed on years earlier. It was probably for the best that they had parted when they did. He had been spared a world of pain.

His ruminations were interrupted by the light trod of footsteps up the windward side of the deck. A familiar figure passed into view. Valory cocked his head. In the week since leaving Armathia, Arden had been able to relax his duties and only appear topside when his watch team was scheduled to be up and about. Arden and he shared a watch; the other man had no reason to be on deck either. Given how exhausted he had seemed earlier, Valory hadn’t expected to see him for some time – even if they had begun spending their free time together after that first meal in Arden’s cabin.

“You’re up late,” Valory observed, startling the sailor out of what must have been a deep reverie.

Arden smiled. “Or early, depending on your perspective.” His eyes fell on the familiar folio in Valory’s lap. “How do you like it?”

“It’s excellent work. I can see why you asked for feedback, as the interpretation of chronology can get difficult with so many different tales interweaving. The choice to place many of Eramen and Drand’s travels after his marriage was interesting.”

“Operating under the assumption that many of these verses were written to chronicle history, I had to do a lot of studying and cross-referencing. Some of their journeys must have happened after Eramen’s marriage, else they never happened at all. I decided to allow the reader to draw what conclusions they would.”

“Perhaps Eramen filled the rolls of King and Regent all at once, then, if he spent so much time away from Armathia visiting his people,” Valory observed.

“I suppose his desire to do so would make it difficult for you to question your ancestry, my Lord,” Arden smiled.

“Val.”

“ _Val_ ,” Arden corrected, amused.

“Sit, please – unless you are busy.”

“Not at all. I came up for a breath of fresh air, and to take a look at the sky. It’s a beautiful night.”

“Indeed. I doubt I’ll ever tire of the view,” Valory agreed, gesturing towards the water.

“The firefish are out, then?” Arden asked, peering over the side. _Windjammer_ ’s wake was jostling the small water creatures, causing them to light up like fireflies. The pin-prick sized fish made the dark water beneath _Windjammer_ appear as star-studded as the sky above.

“It’s the right moon cycle for them,” Valory observed.

“Have you swum with them at night? They light up around your waving limbs,” he said. He still hadn’t sat down.

“I have. It’s akin to something out of a dream,” Valory smiled. “I would it weren’t too dangerous to do so now.”

“As would I.”

Valory looked the sailor over. “If you would rather not have company . . .”

“Not at all. I have a better seat in mind, though, if you wouldn’t mind joining me,” he suggested, gesturing further aft. Valory rose, bringing the Chronicles along as they wound back towards the quarterdeck.

Arden plopped down in one half of the mainsail halyard ballantine. The interlocking circles of the coil served almost as an armchair, and gave him a clear line of sight up and down the starboard side of the deck. The waves that rode behind them were studded with the firefish’s tiny pricks of light. It was a fine place to relax and rest for a while.

Arden gestured to the other half of the coil. “More than room enough,” he said.

Valory sank down next to him. “You have a nice little spot here.”

“I like the foresail gaff a mite better, but that won’t be something you’ll see me attempt with the sails raised.”

“I’d imagine not,” Valory nodded. “So tell me, what keeps you up at this hour?”

“Three hours on, six hours off always contrives to ruin my concept of day or night. I’ll confess that knowing we are out on open water and facing an unknown foe has robbed me of no small amount of sleep. I assume you are experiencing similar misgivings.”

“I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, as they say,” Valory inclined his head. “Truth be told, I have spent time worrying over my return to Armathia as well.” He glanced over at the sailor to catch his reaction.

Arden’s face was barely illuminated by lantern light, but the wince that passed across it was unmistakable. “What worries you?”

“My father’s health, of course, but I also worry over the orders he might give me upon my return. I fear that he will send me to Anaphe.”

“Why do you fear that?” Arden asked. “Your Steward waits in Anaphe, does he not?”

Valory let out a long sigh. “Your brother is a good man and a great leader, but . . . you said it yourself, did you not? I suppose I always fancied myself following Eramen’s example and continuing to travel throughout Oceana at the King’s behest.”

“Yet Conrad is no Drand,” Arden surmised.

“That he is not – and it is wrong of me to wish otherwise. He is good at what he does. I fear my desires are selfish. The life of a wanderer is all that I know. There is a certain freedom in it, even if I have always had direction and orders. I would be loath to lose that,” he confessed.

“That, I understand.”

“I thought you might. I suppose the trouble is that I’m not sure I would be any good taking over as viceroy of Anaphe. I have settled localized disputes with words as well as with arms, but the idea of the same court, the same petitioners, the same intrigue day in and day out –” Valory sighed. “Apologies. I imagine you came out on deck to find some peace, not to listen to the troubles of an ungrateful prince.”

“I would hardly dismiss your worries so blithely, my L—Val,” Arden said softly. “It is a difficult thing, to feel as though one is being set up for failure. Especially by those one loves the most.” He turned his gaze to the sea, watching the firefish dance in _Windjammer_ ’s wake.

“You sound as though you speak from experience,” Valory noted.

Arden’s eyes flicked back toward his. “I am familiar with the feeling.”

“Your father?” Valory asked. Arden nodded, but said nothing. “Is that why you left Armathia?”

“It was not so simple a thing.”

“Surely you know by now that I reserve no petty judgments for your actions. Still, I wish you would tell me what happened, that I might better understand.”

Arden studied him for a moment as though he were evaluating the truth in his words. After a tense minute, he relented. “I suppose you of all people would. You were there for some of it, after all.” He took a breath. “It was no secret in the court that my father had not wanted another son. He thought me superfluous, no doubt – a third Steward’s son when the King only had two. I’ve heard accounts of his volatile reaction when he was told that my mother was with child again. It was so soon after Conrad’s birth.”

“He was worried for her health. Worry has always loosed his tongue,” Valory said.

Arden made a face. “Perhaps, yes. Perhaps it would have amounted to no more than that, had my birth not taken my mother’s life.”

Valory regarded him carefully. “You walk in her likeness, you know.”

“I know,” Arden whispered. “I know. The very fact that I have her coloration served to raise my father’s ire countless times. I suppose my presence always reminded him of what he had lost. It would seem that I am a poor substitute.”

“Arden—”

“My father is not a bad man,” Arden said, holding up a hand to forestall Valory’s objection. “I know that. He is a brilliant Steward who is much beloved by our people. He was a good father to Verne and Conrad, even if they oft complained of how hard he pushed them. He did not, however, trouble himself much with me – unless something I did had served to garner his disfavor.” Arden sighed. “I love my father, Val. I sought his approval so desperately. I think he thought me weak for it.”

“There is no weakness in seeking a kind word from one’s father,” Valory argued.

“Perhaps not,” Arden allowed. “Regardless, I was a disappointment to him. I was smaller than Verne and less personable than Conrad. As a child I was sickly, and – surely you remember – preferred the company of books above all else. I never felt quite right, as though I was in a body that wasn’t mine. Even my enchantment felt wrong. My father had little patience for such claims. I have already spoken with you about his disdain for my academic pursuits. The court deemed it unwise to oppose his opinion. I’m afraid I had few friends and fewer prospects,” he shrugged.

“You must have been terribly lonely. I would that I had known.”

“You were always very kind on your occasional visits home. It was clear that you did not know the particulars of the relationship between my father and I, and I was hardly going to be the one to bring it up. By then I had taken to being difficult on purpose.”

“Surely Verne and Conrad must have seen,” Valory frowned.

“What could they do? I love my brothers dearly – they always looked out for me. I don’t doubt that I made it through the constant public dressing-downs because of their interference. Still, I know that they shared many of Father’s opinions: they merely disagreed with his method of delivery.”

“Verne and Conrad never blamed you for the death of your mother,” Valory said.

“No, perhaps not, but I hardly made it easy on them. They questioned my pastimes and fussed over my abysmal skills both in court and in the practice ring, and I repaid them by disappearing in the library for days at a time and refusing to speak to anyone but my tutors. Verne often offered to help me with my archery; I always refused.” Arden nearly laughed at the look on Valory’s face. “Don’t think you’ve been masking your surprise at the way I turned out, my Lord. It was common knowledge that I could try to shoot the ocean and miss.”

“What happened?” Valory asked.

“Well, I suppose the worst began months before I left. My father was sick of my attempts at dodging military service, but since I had no skills to speak of as far as knighthood was concerned, he sent me to the garrison to be trained for the cavalry.”

“ _What_?” Valory bit out. To send a nobleman’s son to the garrison for training was unthinkable – a powerful insult.

“I had that same reaction, I’m afraid, and it did me no favors. Neither did the heavy weaponry I was taught to use. I did not lie to Imran – I have no talent with the broadsword.”

“But the longbow, surely—”

“Not then, at least,” Arden shook his head. “Although I suppose someone would have noticed my aptitude for it were I not under the sole command of the garrison’s idiot Captain.”

“Who was the Captain then?”

“Bertrand bar Bernard.”

“I remember him – stocky fellow, minor firestarter. Awful signature.”

“I thought so too,” Arden sighed. “My second enchantment had just begun to develop, unbeknownst to all of us at the time. Bertrand hated me, and I figured it had to do with my reputation. I started getting these awful headaches during training. It made progress nigh on impossible. I’d wager my archery actually worsened during that time. Then I started to notice little things – candles flickering when I tapped my fingers, the wind rose when I shouted, ripples would form in the wash basin as I whistled.” Arden shook his head. “I was so happy for the first time in so long. I thought I had the answer: to why I was so small, to why Bertrand and I couldn’t stand each other’s presence, to how I had always felt incomplete.”

“What did you do?” Valory asked.

“Nothing at first. It was a thrilling secret, but I wanted to be certain before I said anything. Besides, the talent was so weak I couldn’t call on it reliably. If I were to speak about it with my father, I knew I would need proof. Then I learned that my company was to be sent out to the Borderlands. I knew as well as Bertrand that I was not nearly ready to go, but he put me on the roster anyway. I suppose he wanted to be rid of me.”

“You could have been killed!” Valory said, aghast.

“I’m sure I would have been, had I gone. It turned out to be one of the bloodiest border disputes in history. I knew I stood little chance of surviving such a campaign, but could not imagine petitioning my father for a reprieve. I went to one of Illen’s priests instead – Murdock. Do you remember him?”

“Yes, he was your father’s favorite up until his death. I always thought him proud for a priest.”

“I would I had known that at the time,” Arden sighed. “I told him that I thought I was developing an Elemental enchantment. I suppose that was a silly mistake on my part – he had been the one to call me for a Seer and bless my talisman years earlier. He was the type of man to take such a statement as an insult, and gave a full report of my fanciful notions to my father. He didn’t even test me.”

“I would that old bat was still alive, that I might wring his neck,” Valory muttered.

“You’d have to wait your turn,” Arden replied. “Needless to say my father was furious with me – for my supposed lie, for my presumption, for going behind his back, for avoiding military service. He thought it cowardice on my part, no more. He said some terribly cruel things about how I had offended Illen herself for claiming that she would bless one as worthless as I with such a great gift. He told me that I would ride out to the border the next day, and if I met my death there, so be it.”

Valory sucked in a sharp breath. “Surely he spoke out of turn in a moment of anger.”

Arden shook his head. Even in the dim lighting, Valory could see the wetness in the other man’s eyes. “I asked him if I was such a disappointment that he would rather see me dead than have me remain in Armathia. He said ‘ _I would not feel so if you had brought honor to this family as your brothers have. If the only honor you can find is on the battlefield, then you know the answer to your question.’_ ”

“Arden—”

“With that said aloud, what worse news could I have? So I asked him the one thing that had been burning in the back of my mind for years – ‘ _Are you angry with me, Father, that I lived when Mother died?’_ ”

“Oh, Arden,” Valory whispered. The Steward’s son’s grief was powerful to behold.

“He said – _‘Angry? No. But I have always wished your places exchanged.’_ He had finally said it, had finally confirmed the worst of my fears. My father wished that I was dead. For many hours after our audience, I was determined to grant his wish and ride out with my company in the morning. As dawn grew closer, however, I began to feel some misgivings about such a suicide mission. Call me selfish, but I left that night with no word and took the first ship to the isles that I could find. I sought out Illen’s priest on Kilcoran.”

“The Master Seer?”

“Yes. I had no plans of ever returning home, knowing how little I was wanted. But I needed to know whether or not I was right.”

“And you were.”

“I was. More so than I would have dared imagine.”

“I’m so sorry, Arden,” Valory said, hesitating for a moment before laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder. Arden accepted the small comfort, bowing his head. “You did what you had to do – and if Verne and Conrad couldn’t understand why, I daresay it was out of their own blindness.”

“In their defense I was not very good at making myself understood in those days. Neither of them was present for that final exchange. I doubt it would have gone so far, if they were. And now . . . after so many years, I would be surprised if they wanted to hear what I had to say on the matter.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Your brothers love you. They miss you. I’m sure they would be thrilled to see how far you have come, albeit guilty for not knowing that this was within you the whole time.”

“You truly believe that?” Arden looked up, surprised.

Valory forced himself to temper his tone to careful neutrality. His attraction to Miran’s son had only grown with all of the long watches they had shared over the past week. It would be easy to say too much. “I do. If the circumstances of fate had been different and I was the youngest of three sons rather than two, I would have been proud to call you my Steward.”

Arden stared at Valory, stunned. He had never thought he would receive such a commendation. “Thank you. Had things been so, I would have been honored to serve you. As it is, though, I fear that there yet remains no place for me. The Stewardship will be carried on by Verne’s future sons, and I . . .” he shrugged. “I know not what I will do.”

“I think it would be foolish of my father to deny you a captaincy, should you be amenable,” Valory answered.

“In the navy?” Arden asked.

“Where else?”

“My only military service was the short and unsuccessful year I described to you,” Arden shook his head. “What man worth his salt would heed my command?”

“You could do a tour as a Lieutenant first, should it please you. I imagine that would serve to change the memory that others have of you.”

“And who would buy my commission?”

“Your father would, if I had to point a knife at his heart to make him sign the papers,” Valory said darkly. “Unless you have no desire to return to sea,” he amended.

Arden shook his head. “I said I understood your will to continue your travels, did I not? If the only way to do that is through a military captaincy, then I would be lucky to have the opportunity. It would be a fine thing to lead a life of honor, from a port I might call home, with a family that might be happy to see me when I return.” He smiled wistfully at the thought.

“So it shall be.”

“I mean no slight to the kindness you have shown me, but – why?”

“You are a man of exceptional ability,” Valory said. “I think you forget that on occasion. Oceana needs you. Besides, through all of these long watches, I like to think we have become friends. I don’t have very many, but those I do have I will aid without reservation.”

“Thank you,” Arden whispered.

They both heard the twang of the lantern’s cord snapping before they saw it. Arden jumped to his feet, knowing he would be too late to catch it but trying anyway. He watched, stunned, as the lantern’s descent to the deck stopped midway. The lantern remained suspended, hovering above the housetop.

Valory could feel the hot metal edges of the lantern with his mind. It was not so very heavy, and so stopping its momentum had been a simple thing. He weighed it for a moment, feeling the smooth panes of glass, the wax dripping along the interior, the weighty cast iron ring from which it was hung. After a moment he lowered it down, setting it upon the rough varnished teak of the house top. The near-fall had caused the candle to gutter out, though the wick still glowed slightly. Arden shot him a sidelong glance before extending a hand. Valory felt a sharp little grin cross his features. Arden hardly needed to move to exercise his enchantment – he was simply putting on a show.

Arden’s arm was extended palm up. He bowed deeply, gesturing towards the lantern as the wick sparked and lit once more. Valory laughed, seeing it as the playful gesture of gratitude that it was. A broken lantern on a wooden deck was no small danger, after all.

“Well done,” Valory murmured, ignoring the brief wave of nausea he felt as Arden’s leg nudged his. _What an enchantment._

 “Hm,” Arden replied, sitting back down again. “I could say the same to you. I don’t have the opportunity to see telekinetics at work very often, though I’m inclined to accuse you of planning the whole thing to distract me from my maudlin mood.”

“Good, let’s call it altruism rather than vanity,” Valory laughed.

“Or practicality, seeing as how you saved me the mess,” Arden said, stretching out in the coil. “You don’t use it often, do you?”

“I think telekinesis tempts one to laziness,” Valory admitted. “It can dull one’s reactions and other abilities if relied on too strongly. Have you met many?”

“Telekinetics? A handful.”

“I find they’re either the sort to use their talent sparingly, or overuse it to the point of indolence. Many can be quite . . . abrasive personalities as well,” Valory admitted.

“Because of their purported egotism? I will confess that, of the few I’ve met, most have been dreadfully fond of themselves, often at the expense of those around them,” Arden admitted.

“Am I?” Valory asked, honestly.

“You, my Lord?” Arden studied the other man’s earnest expression, surprised.

“I daresay that you and your family members are some of the few who would be terribly honest with me on that point.”

“You are a man of no mean confidence, but I would not call that a failing, nor would I say you were abrasive,” Arden said. _No, not abrasive or unpleasant at all – and that’s exactly the trouble._

At that, the bell rang. Arden groaned, standing up and stretching. He offered a hand to Valory, pulling the other man to his feet.

“Shall I go find Imran and see if he’s in any shape to stand watch with us?” Valory asked.

Arden smiled. He found it highly amusing to give orders to his Prince. “It will do him good to come up on deck, even if he’s feeling ill again. The swell is not so great tonight; he can sit bow watch. I’ll go speak with Jonah and get the news. Be ready to muster on the quarterdeck in ten.”

“Aye, sir,” Valory teased.

Arden playfully cuffed his shoulder. “I take back what I said about your abrasiveness.”

Valory laughed and turned for the foredeck. He wasn’t looking forward to waking Imran up overmuch: the Dramorian always seemed to startle awake when at sea. The rest of the watch, though . . . Valory shook his head. He was looking forward to sitting yet another three hour watch with Arden a great deal, whether or not he wanted to admit it to himself.

…

“Come on lads, let’s get that reef in!” Callum shouted above the howling of the wind.

Rain pelted the deck without mercy, riding the wind and coming at them from every direction. The ocean was black, frothing and heaving, tossing _Windjammer_ around like a cork. Lightning flashed above them as water sloshed through the scuppers on every roll, turning the deck into a treacherous, slippery mess. Callum and Little were holding the helm together, their combined strength the only thing preventing the rudder from slamming hard over with every passing wave.

“Valory!” Arden shouted from the main mast. Through the rain Valory could see Arden’s form. His soaked shirt stuck to his skin. Tendrils of hair escaped his dripping queue to plaster themselves to the sides of his face. Valory skidded down the steps of the quarterdeck to help him.

“Do you want me to sweat the outhaul?” he asked, shouting to be heard over the roar of wind, rain, and ocean.

“I’ll tail for you – go until my signal,” Arden replied, dropping the coil off of the fife rail and getting the line ready.

Valory put a foot up on the rail for purchase before grabbing the line at shoulder height. Using _Windjammer_ ’s wild heeling to his advantage, he rocked forward before springing back as hard as he could, pulling out slack in the line and pushing it towards the pin. Arden took up the slack with practiced ease, one eye on the foot of the sail as Valory’s efforts slowly pulled the reef tight against the boom. Jonah, Lars, Niko, and Gabriel were perched precariously atop the companionway tying the reef in as quickly as their fingers could work. Ehrin, for her part, was crawling across the foresail gaff on her belly, sail ties in her teeth as she efficiently bundled the quickly-dropped sail out of the way.

Arden glanced back at the Prince as he sweat the line again, perfect form and no small amount of strength contriving to fight the power of the whipping wind. He obviously had more sail training than he let on. “One more, Val,” he encouraged.

After a final sweat, Arden made off and coiled the line, hanging it securely on the pin. He glanced up at Valory again as they returned to the quarterdeck. His shirt and vest were drenched and dripping. Sodden strands of black hair stuck to his face and neck. Despite the vicious rolls that they were taking, he hadn’t yet lost his footing. Arden didn’t need to see the wild grin he wore to know that the other man relished in the fury of the sea. Valory was as much of a sailor as he was.

Lars dropped down from the companionway, laughing and clapping Jonah on the shoulder. They, too, were thrilled and awed by the power of the storm, even though they all knew the dangers that such a squall could pose.

“Sheet in to close hauled!” Callum shouted as the wind began to shift. Lars and Valory wound up on the mainsail sheet together with Jonah stepping forward to tail. It took the combined strength of both men to bring the sail in. Arden watched, amazed, as the three worked in tandem as though they had been sailing together for years.

A moment later, his eye drifted towards the only person aboard who was not relishing in the wild weather. Imran sat on the leeward side of the helm, hunched pitifully over the caprail and getting drenched with every wave. Arden whipped a spare sail tie out of his pocket, fashioning a bowline easily with one hand.

“Imran!” he shouted over the wind, coming to kneel next to the Dramorian. Imran looked up at him blearily, but did not speak. “Here brother, put this around yourself. We can’t be losing you overboard,” Arden said, offering up the sail tie. Imran slipped the bowline over his head and around his waist like a makeshift harness. He attempted to tie it onto the caprail, but his fingers were clumsy and slow. Arden took the bitter end from him and made quick work of it, hitching it to a thick stanchion.

“Thank you,” Imran mouthed before turning and dry-heaving off the side of the boat. Arden patted his back a few times before standing. The Dramorian would not want comfort or special treatment, but Arden was still unwilling to see him suffer.

Valory had just finished sheeting in the main. He looked up from his work in time to watch Arden tie Imran in and offer what small comfort the man would take. He felt warmth spread in his breast at the sight; Arden was a capable sailor, that much was evident, but the care he took while looking out for all on deck was something that Valory had rarely seen in his travels. If nothing else, it served to endear the Steward’s son to him even further.

Arden felt Valory’s stare and looked over, shrugging as though to say he had done what he could. Glancing around the quarterdeck, he began to deliver orders. The squall had come upon them without warning, and there was still much to be done.

“Lars, Gabe, Jonah – let’s get that launch boat secured. Niko – the weather’s too foul to send anyone up on bow watch, but I want your eyes forward from the quarterdeck steps. Ehrin, finished?” he called.

“Yeh, Jack,” Ehrin responded, pulling herself back up to the quarterdeck. She had shed her skirts and boots when the storm struck for easier movement and better purchase aloft.

“Take a quick tour down below and make sure we haven’t any troubles. Report back when you’re done, then join Niko on watch from the port side,” Arden commanded.

The sailors sprang into action, hastening to obey their First Officer’s orders. Valory nodded, considering. Miran would be stunned when he found out that the boy he had always shunned had grown into such a respected leader. “What else needs doing?” he asked.

“Walk the deck with me,” Arden said. “Niko – you know what to do.” Valory couldn’t help the tight little grin that tugged at his lips. Arden had pulled him along for the most dangerous job there was: high praise from a seasoned sailor.

“Aye, sir,” Niko nodded, one arm looped around the shrouds. It was he who would call the man-overboard if either Valory or Arden went down.

They descended the steps to windward side-by-side, occasionally grabbing each other’s shoulders for balance. As they moved forward, Arden would point out small things that needed to be fixed: a coil that had come loose, a porthole that needed to be dogged, a sheet that required tightening. They turned at the samson post, not willing to risk nearing the bowsprit. As it was, the bow was pitching so wildly that they were almost crawling on all fours.

The more dangerous endeavor was walking back on the leeward side of the vessel. Bracing each other, they painstakingly made their way aft as the caprail dipped precariously close to the water. If the weather worsened, they’d have to throw out a drogue and pray that it slowed their progress enough to right the vessel some. Arden found himself feeling profoundly grateful that he had taken Valory with him for the deck walk; the man’s steely grip on his upper arm was about all that was keeping him from being knocked to the deck by the lurching of the ship.

As he had that thought, the schooner shuddered, tipping dangerously – unnaturally. Valory and Arden were both thrown inboard; Arden caught his hipbone on the foresail traveler and cursed as Valory landed nearly on top of him, smacking his head mightily on the lip of the companionway.

“What the hell was that?” Valory shouted, shaking his head. _Windjammer_ lurched again. This time they felt the impact.

Arden’s eyes went wide. “Get up. Get up! We need to get back,” he shouted, pushing Valory across the housetop towards the high side of the boat. They landed in a welter of tangled limbs on the windward walkway before skidding aft towards the steps. The look on Arden’s face had told Valory all he needed to know.

As if on cue, Lars’ voice came bellowing above the roar of the wind and waves. “Leeward stern! Leeward stern!”

His shout was followed by Imran’s scream. Arden and Valory scrambled up the steps of the quarterdeck, slipping and sliding aft towards the helm. On the leeward side Imran’s face was contorted with pain as he struggled to hold onto the caprail. Something thick and black was wrapped around his thigh, attempting to drag him overboard.

“Squid!” Niko cried, whipping his rig knife off of his belt. He stabbed into the flesh of the tentacle relentlessly, two, three, four times before the gelatinous sinews gave away and the tip that wrapped Imran’s leg was severed from the rest. With a quick swipe he slashed the sail tie that held Imran to the side of the vessel and pushed him inboard.

Imran toppled in towards the helm, seasickness forgotten in the adrenaline of the fight. He turned as if to engage the creature, but Arden stopped him with an arm. “Below!” he commanded, pointing to the companionway. His tone brokered no argument, and Imran found himself following the order without hesitation.

As quickly as one tentacle retreated another took its place, slapping sickeningly over the side of the boat. Valory watched in horror as it quested for something – anything – living, black suckers pulsating as it squirmed towards the helm. He grappled for his sword and stepped towards the tentacle with as much caution as he could, careful not to allow _Windjammer_ ’s unpredictable rolls to throw him into the creature’s clutches. He lifted his sword over his head. With the skill of an executioner, he brought it down to bite deep into rubbery flesh. The squid screamed, jerking, nearly ripping Valory’s sword out of his hands. In a flash Lars was beside him, hacking at a second tentacle with his cutlass.

Arden, in the meantime, had shouted down the companionway for Ehrin to bring the kerosene before scrambling back to the helm where his bow and quiver were always strapped. He shouldered the quiver and nocked an arrow, letting it fly at one of the questing tentacles. The tentacle seized, giving Valory enough time to sever it completely. Arden moved to stand next to him at the cap rail, putting a foot up to steady his aim and look down.

The creature before him was ugly to behold; the mantle was dark and blotchy, the eye an unseeing milky yellow. Its markings rapidly shifted shape and color, camouflaging its body to appear akin to the undulating surface of the ocean. Arden was no stranger to the giant predators of the sea, however, and knew precisely where to aim. He nocked another arrow as a fourth tentacle lifted up from the depths, poised as if to strike. He felt one of Valory’s hands come to bunch in his belt at the small of his back – whether steadying him on the rail or preparing to yank him back from the questing tentacle, Arden wasn’t sure. He let the arrow go, attempting to light it as it passed from his grip. Though his aim was true the wood was sodden, and the spark wouldn’t take.

Valory winced, yanking his hand away to avoid the curious nausea that came from touching Arden after the man used his enchantment. He took a deep breath before stepping forward to grip Arden’s belt once more; he wouldn’t let a little bit of sick best him.

Below them, the creature let out an ear-splitting shriek. Arden saw the squid’s deliberate movement for what it was and began to move back from the caprail, but his reaction wasn’t quick enough. A viscous black liquid shot over the side of the boat, covering both he and Valory completely. Arden felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him; the ink was ice cold and stung his eyes and lips terribly. He crawled on hands and knees back towards the helm, blindly bumping into Valory on the way. Valory, for his part, was cursing mightily, trying to wipe the ink out of his eyes.

Ehrin arrived on the scene in the nick, ripping a sleeve from her shirt with little ceremony and using it to wipe off first Arden, then Valory’s face. She tossed the sleeve aside and pulled Arden upright. In her other hand she held a cork-stopped jug. Understanding her intentions – and finally able to see despite the residual sting – Arden leaned forward, giving her access to his arrows. Ehrin popped the cork from the jug with her teeth and dumped its contents into the quiver. If it wouldn’t light now, Arden didn’t know what they would do.

When Arden stood, he saw that Valory was already up and fighting once more. The Prince’s dark hair whipped around behind him as he swung his sword two-handed in powerful arcs. He was beating a tentacle back from the helm where it threatened to wrest away Callum’s control of the ship. Callum, for his part, was brandishing his sharpened marlinspike with his spare hand, stabbing towards the tentacle viciously every time it came within reach.

Arden dodged the skirmish, returning to his position at the caprail. Bracing himself yet again, he said a quick prayer to Illen before nocking a kerosene-soaked arrow and letting it fly. As it left his fingertips he reached out with his enchantment, willing it to light. The fletching instantly ignited, spreading up the shaft as it bore down on its target. Without waiting to see whether or not the arrow struck home, Arden loosed a second, a third, a fourth – until the creature began to hiss and wail. Arden ducked as it spit more ink, catching most of it down his back.

It seemed, however, that his aim had been true: when Valory severed the tentacle he’d been battling, none came to replace it. Arden dared a glance back at the water just in time to see the giant squid sink below the waves, disappearing into the deep. He sighed, slumping down onto the caprail, heart hammering. He allowed himself to sit there for a moment before springing back to his feet, making sure that all of his men were accounted for.

The squall was beginning to quiet, allowing for easier movement along the deck. Callum was able to hold their course without aid, freeing Little up to head below and check on Imran. Gabe, Niko, and Lars all sheathed their blades in silence, still too stunned to speak. Ehrin stood where Arden had last left her, clutching the kerosene jug.

Valory had already sheathed his broadsword and was wiping at his face and neck, still cursing. “What in Illen’s name _is_ this?” he muttered.

“Squid ink. Makes you wonder how something so damn cold can burn so terribly,” Arden said.

Valory looked up at him, stifling a laugh as he took in the streaks of ink staining Arden’s hair, face, neck, and clothing. “You look like shit.”

Arden made a face. “You’re no shining beacon of Armathian beauty either, Val.”

Valory smirked before glancing back towards the companionway. “I’m going to see how Imran is.”

“You are _not_ going below like that,” Arden countered. “Squid ink stinks of rotting fish when it dries. The stench will haunt the salon for weeks.”

Arden led him to the galley hatch instead, which they pulled open. The choice was fortuitous, for Imran and Little were directly below them. Little was searching Ehrin’s pantry.

“Is your leg alright, Imran?” Valory asked as Arden said,

“The Lady of the Galley will have your bollocks if she sees you doing that. What are you looking for?”

“Salve. That damned thing’s suckers left welts like I’ve never seen on his leg,” Little replied.

“Check the starboard aft cupboard; that’s where she keeps her medical kits,” Arden offered.

Imran was leaning against the stove, head tipped back, one leg propped up against the opposite counter. Even in the dim light it was easy to see that his leggings had been ripped open by the creature; his pale thigh was dotted with blistering red circles where the suckers had attached. The muscles in his jaw worked mightily as he clenched his teeth to avoid giving voice to his discomfort.

“Let us know if there’s anything you need,” Valory said.

“Sure thing, Val,” Little replied. As they shut the hatch, they heard Little tease, “Oh come on now, stop your whinging. You’re lucky the thing didn’t get your neck – though I s’pose even a giant squid wouldn’t want to be so close to the source of all that vomit – ouch, how did you just kick me from that position?”

Arden let out a huff of laughter as he dogged the hatch. The rain had let up to a light drizzle. “Well, I suppose I’ll get the bucket if you can persuade Ehrin to part with any of her precious bars of Kilcoranian soap. If this ink dries on us the rest of the crew won’t let us stand upwind of them for weeks.”

Valory snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

“I think flattery might be the easiest place to start.”

“I might remind her that it’s within her best interest to loan it to us.”

“Fair point,” Arden conceded, opening the line locker and extracting a long knotted line with a bucket tied to the end.

Valory regarded the other man for a moment, willing himself not to be distracted by the amusing picture he presented. “You seem very unconcerned about what just happened.”

Arden glanced back towards the Prince. “You said it yourself, did you not? We all began this journey knowing well the dangers we might face. This is not the first creature of the deep we have encountered. I will admit that I find their increased numbers unsettling, but what will worrying do?” He sighed. “Until we discover why they have come, there is naught we can do but sail on and hope for the best.”

“And so we will,” Valory said, standing and glancing back toward the helm. Aside from the ink splatter on deck and Ehrin’s suspiciously absent shirt sleeve, it was impossible to tell that anything had gone awry. All were going about their usual business once more, making ready to shake the reef in the main and raise the fore now that the wind had calmed. “And so we will.”

…

“It’s a shame we aren’t closer with our Sarian neighbors,” Valory murmured, turning a page. “Perhaps that’s something my brother and I might rectify one day.”

Arden looked up from his book. The Prince was completely absorbed in a Sarian diplomatic text. His earlier humble words on the subject had turned out to be misleading; the man was clearly fluent in Sarian and more than competent in Dramorian and most Westernese dialects. He had also become the first patron of the ‘Ship’s Library’, chewing through Arden’s volumes with abandon. He had even taken to bringing treats for Mizzen when he went to select a new text, having quickly learned that it was best to be in the tabby’s good graces.

“It’s not for nothing that they live on the other side of a swath of infested marshlands.”

“But sea trade, surely,” Valory replied, glancing up from his treatise.

“We see ships from Halen, but they’re so far from the Sarian capital.”

“I suppose the trade alliance is the best we’ll get without a reliable overland route,” Valory nodded, turning back to the text.

This had become their ritual ever since Arden had shown Valory his preferred deck spot. Once or twice a day either of them would come up on deck with a book to find the other already sprawled in one of the interlocking circles of the mainsail peak halyard, ready to share conversation or companionable silence. Neither slept much when in command of men or vessels, and so when they had free time, they spent it before the mast in the shadow of the quarterdeck. Callum and the others seemed content to leave them to it; they must have sensed how Arden and Valory always sought out one another’s company.

It was an early evening just like the several that had come before. He wasn’t quite sure when it had started, but easy companionship and habit had left them comfortable in close quarters. Arden often pulled himself from the clutches of a favorite novel only to realize that, while reading, their bodies had arranged themselves of their own accord. Once Valory’s chin had come to rest upon his shoulder as he perused his reading selection. Another time they had wound up back-to-back, each leaning upon the other for comfort and support. This evening Arden had sunk backwards until his shoulder blade butted up against the crook of Valory’s arm, his copper hair straying into the Prince’s collar and dusting the lacings of his vest.

When it was time for rest or to attend to shipboard duties, one or both men would move to stand and depart without comment. They did not acknowledge the comfort that such proximity brought them, nor their tendency to seek it unawares. Arden had not failed to notice that Valory rarely touched others unless he had to. He feared that, were he to say something, their companionable evenings would come to an end – an outcome he sought to avoid.

“What are you reading?” Valory asked, startling Arden from his reverie.

“An account of the last man to attempt to harness the power of Illen’s Gift,” he replied.

“You mean, to take the Stone from the altar beneath the cathedral in Armathia?” Valory asked.

“No, not to take it, at least,” Arden shook his head. Tendrils of hair tickled Valory’s collarbone. “Is there any record of anyone attempting to take the Stone itself, rather than merely borrow its power?”

“There are rumors: stories handed down from generation to generation.”

“Cautionary tales?”

“Something like that. My mother told me once, long ago, that none but a devil would ever attempt to covet the Blessing for himself.”

“We have seen some questionable characters reach power, but I doubt that any have been so selfish as to entertain the idea of taking the Stone from its altar and stripping the people of Oceana of their enchantments,” Arden countered.

“Perhaps not. The tale is still told. Perhaps it was attempted during the early days.”

“More likely it is a misinterpretation of the fate that has befallen those who sought to touch the Stone and were deemed unworthy.”

Valory sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why the source of Illen’s Blessing is tangible at all. She must have known that such an object would be a siren song to many a greedy man.”

“That is precisely why only those she deems worthy might touch it.”

“Is that what it says in your account? That a man might touch it and not be gravely punished?” Valory asked.

“It alludes to that.”

“Where did you find it?”

“In the temple archives on Kilcoran, many years ago. The original is still there; I have been transcribing it in bits and pieces, spending an afternoon or two there every time I return to the island. The Master Seer is a friend of mine, you will remember, and he allows me access to his most ancient and valuable texts,” Arden replied.

“Who was he?”

“The man who attempted to touch the Illen Stone? His name was Arin bar Loren.”

“There is some truth to the story, then. Loren was King once, though Arin must have been a younger son; Athridry was Loren’s firstborn. It was Athidry who led the first of many unsuccessful campaigns across the mountains.”

“Indeed. How many generations back was that? Fourteen?”

“Fifteen, if you count my brother’s impending Kingship.” Valory said. “So it is Prince Arin upon whom the rather gruesome warnings were based.”

“With all due respect to your ancestors, my Lord, Arin got no more than he deserved. Did the stories that you were told imply otherwise?”

“Tell me the story as you have learned it, and then I will tell you what I know.”

“From what I understand, King Athidry began the campaign into Westernese territory against the advice of his Steward. They had a legendary row over it, though it seems as though nothing came of the argument other than harsh words and bruised egos. Athidry was a bit of a fanatic, I think; he thought it was Illen’s will that Oceana rise as the dominant power in the Eastern World, and sought to make her ‘will’ a reality.”

“Hence the conquest of the clans that pay tribute to Dramor.”

“It would be the first step towards subjugating the sultanate,” Arden nodded. “Removing Westernese support would cut them off at the ankles. This was doubly the case in those times, I imagine, as the Banishment was not so far removed, and parts of Dramor were still stricken by the touch of the Damned One. Athidry must have known that the Gods hadn’t meant to truly abandon us when they ceased their interference with mortal matters; the Illen Stone exists not only to serve as the source of our enchantments, but also to allow the worthy to call upon Godly power at times of great need.”

“Then Illen’s parting gift to the Oceanic people, and to Eramen for his service, has a secondary function beyond that of common knowledge. I suspect my mother always alluded to such a function, though I never quite got her meaning.”

“There are some legends that claim Eramen was able to use the Illen Stone to prevent Oceana from falling during the early days. I came across them when compiling the Chronicles, but none were ever written down in verse. I have found nothing that might verify them as more than hearsay, though I tend to think it possible,” Arden shrugged. “If that were the case and Eramen had touched the Illen Stone, this account of Arin’s actions would make a fair bit more sense.”

“What did he do?”

“It seems as though Arin supported his brother the King’s political views. Bear in mind that Arin was not Athidry’s Regent; he was the youngest of several sons. The Regent was crossing the mountains at the time and having more than his fair share of difficulty. This account claims that Arin was a Seer of some power and foresaw the campaign coming to a miserable end before ever reaching the heart of Westernese territory. That was what led him to the Illen Stone; he thought that he might wreck the Westernese opposition.”

“And that was deemed ignoble?”

Arden shrugged. “Perhaps. The text makes no claims of understanding the method by which a man or his motives pass judgment.”

“What do you think of Athidry’s campaign?”

“Do I think it ignoble, you mean? I’m not sure. At that point in time Oceana’s borders were very similar to what they are today. All of the provinces had been willingly united under one crown. True, the Westernese had not chosen to pay tribute to Dramor: it was a tax excised by the sultanate under the veiled threat of war. That said, I doubt they would have seen us as liberators,” Arden said.

“It seems as though your counsel would fall in line with that of Athidry’s Steward,” Valory smiled.

“Let none say that wisdom does not run in my family,” Arden jested. “Would you have taken my counsel, then, or done as Athidry did?”

“I would have taken your counsel, Lord Arden, though I will admit that I share your opinion, and so you would not have had much trouble convincing me. So Arin sought out the Illen Stone to aid his brother’s attempt at conquest?”

“That is what the text alludes to, although his motives are never made explicit. He was dead ere the account was penned, and so all I say to you about what and wherefore is my own speculation – which, I admit, the author refrained from.”

“Yet you are probably not very far from the mark.”

“I imagine not. To answer your question, yes, Arin went to the cathedral. The High Priest attempted to dissuade him from using the Stone, but to no avail. Arin demanded to be let below into the altar, and the High Priest eventually relented. The shroud was pulled away and Arin laid both hands on the Stone’s surface. The actual depiction of the Stone and the altar are very vague; I get the impression that the High Priest – whose testimony fleshes out the account – was intentionally ambiguous in his description of the space. His account of Arin’s experience was very precise, however. Upon touching the Stone his body began to seize. The High Priest dared not touch the Prince for fear of either interrupting the process or incurring Illen’s wrath. After some minutes Arin fell to the floor unmoving. The High Priest bore him back up to the cathedral, thinking him dead.”

“The Stone struck him down?”

“Patience, Val. Inspection by a physician determined that the Prince was alive, though just barely. He burned with fever and soon thereafter began to writhe on account of the pain he was in. He awoke but a few times more before succumbing; each time, the account says, ‘ _madness spoke through him_ ’. The High Priest claimed that the Stone had burned his mind from the inside out.”

“Then he was deemed unfit to wield its power, and suffered as a result of his presumption,” Valory said.

“Ah, but therein lies the most interesting part of the account. According to the text, Arin had gone to the Stone on the very morning that Regent Arod planned to lay siege to one of the great mountain strongholds. Arod was struck down by a Westernese arrow during the first charge and given mere hours to live.”

“That can’t be the case – Arod outlived the King,” Valory murmured.

“He did. The text says that he made a miraculous recovery; so miraculous that only the faintest scar remained where the arrow had struck him, even though it had nearly run him through.”

“Arin healed his brother with the power of the Illen Stone? But if that was his aim, that seems noble enough. Why would Illen take his mind?”

Arden shrugged. “Perhaps the story of Regent Arod’s brush with death is an exaggerated tale of a minor wound. Or, perhaps healing his brother was not all that Prince Arin set out to do, and Illen showed him some mercy. Or perhaps his motives were pure, and madness is the price that all must pay for wielding Godly power. Who knows? That is the tale as the text tells it.”

“It was Athidry who forbade any man born to the line of the Kings from entering the underground altar and beholding the Illen Stone. Perhaps his brother’s death prompted that edict. I only wonder why this story was erased from history, and housed in a dark corner of the Kilcoranian temple library.”

Arden felt a tug at his hair. He glanced back at Valory. The other man was staring off over the horizon, completely unaware that he was winding a lock of Arden’s hair absentmindedly around one of his knuckles, worrying at the sorrel strands with the pad of his thumb. This was a new sort of intimacy between them. Arden dared not call attention to it lest Valory stop; the gentle ministrations were far from unpleasant.

“It might not be terribly wise to promote the belief that even unsuccessful use of the Illen Stone can grant the noble wishes of an otherwise corrupt man’s heart. King Athidry must have thought it better that none dared to harness Illen’s power at all,” Arden murmured, looking back down at the text as Valory continued to gently play with his hair.

“Understandable, considering that the shade of a tale of Arin’s madness and demise was more than potent enough to keep fourteen generations of my forebears from seeking the Stone’s power.”

“I wonder that he, in a moment of madness, did not attempt to take the Stone from the altar and wield its might for himself,” Arden mused.

“I’d like to think even such a distant ancestor of mine a better man than that, but were he not, I imagine he would have known such an act impossible. It would be no simple thing to possess the Illen Stone,” Valory replied.

Arden sighed, losing the battle he was waging within himself and leaning into the Prince’s touch. Valory’s hand stilled for a moment, registering the movement, before deliberately winding a second lock of hair around the knuckle of his forefinger.

“I suppose only the Gods themselves would have the power to remove it from the altar,” Arden murmured, shutting his eyes.

“Gods and demons,” Valory added.

“Neither of which are meant to walk the Eastern World again,” Arden said.

“Except one, during the Reckoning.”

“The end of days. Or the end of an age and the beginning of a new one, depending on who triumphs,” Arden shrugged.

“Many a long year from now, Fángon willing,” Valory said. He slipped his fingers from Arden’s hair to touch his brow, a silent gesture in reverence of the keeper of the locker. After a moment’s hesitation he fingered another strand of hair, noting Arden’s near-immediate sigh of contentment.

“Do you ever wonder what might be if they ever changed their minds? If they ever came back?” Arden asked wistfully.

“The Gods? On occasion. I hope that I would not disappoint, as the last in Eramen’s line. I imagine that it would be a difficult thing to live up to his legacy.”

“I wonder if you would be so blessed if Illen did not see your potential.”

“You think our enchantments are bestowed so deliberately?” Valory asked. It was a topic of much debate, whether or not those with stronger enchantments – or any enchantments at all – were the recipients of Illen’s favor.

Arden was quiet for a moment. Valory clearly had no intention of speaking about the uniqueness of his enchantment, and so Arden decided not to press the matter. “I don’t know,” he deflected. “I suppose it flatters me too much to think so. Moreover there are many good men and women who did not grow into an enchantment.”

“Like Conrad.”

“Precisely. That said it is also difficult to believe the process entirely random,” Arden continued, watching Valory’s reaction carefully. “Perhaps talents are bestowed according to a set of guidelines we have no ability to comprehend, as mere mortals.” He smiled. “Maybe I should have left it at ‘I don’t know’. Idle speculation seems to be doing me no favors today.”

The ship’s bell rang out, signaling the changing of the watch. Valory’s hand carded through Arden’s hair once more before pulling away. “That’s us,” he said, standing. He made no mention of the near caress he had bestowed upon his companion.

“Quarterdeck in ten?”

“In ten. Let’s hope that Imran is in a better mood today, or our watch will be a sorry one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> The 'firefish' they refer to are marine bioluminesence -- a phenomenon that sailors and scuba divers should be very familiar with. Several animals (copeopods, amphipods, ctenophores, cnidarians, and their larvae) have the ability to bioluminesce -- either hunting, or to avoid becoming prey. Garden variety nighttime bioluminesence at the surface appears as tiny yellow pricks of light, hence the comparison to stars. Blue flashes aren't uncommon either, though you typically only see them during certain cycles of the moon. Most marine organisms bioluminesce in the yellow-green to blue spectrum.


	6. Chapter 6

_The Season of Storms  
Ranád the 15; 2421_

When Fiona walked out, resplendent in the deep blue and silver robes of the House of Stewards, a hush fell over the assembled courtiers, councilors, and petitioners. Upon her breast she wore her father’s pendant; a delicate filigree of the Regent’s insignia. Her countenance was unreadable, her eyes hard. She seemed far older than her nineteen years, and the way she gripped the white-and-silver viceroy’s staff seemed to broker no arguments.

Those assembled hesitated for a moment, eyes darting towards the doorway as though they were waiting for another to enter the room behind her. After a minute of tense silence, they realized that no others were forthcoming. Fiona bar Conrad stood alone on the dais in the Anaphean palace. She was wrapped in the vestments of her father’s station. She was claiming his title – and province – as her own.

The courtiers shot confused glances at one another before finally bowing respectfully. The petitioners followed suit. Fiona stared down the eldest of the councilors until he, too, was cowed and moved to drop to one knee. She had prepared for this moment for days, and would not be swayed. Illen was calling her to service.

“In the name of my late father, I, Fiona bar Conrad di Oceana, claim the title of viceroy of Anaphe. All rise.” Those assembled rose, shock plain on most of their faces. Fiona moved to sit in the viceroy’s chair slowly, deliberately. The men scrambled towards their seats. “As is customary the morning of the first day of the week, I will begin hearing petitions,” she announced, perching regally at the edge of her seat. A servant hurried from the wings of the room, bringing parchment and ink to a small side table so that she could take notes as her father always did. She thanked him with a nod of her head.

The eldest of the councilors smiled slowly. He was a large man with a great mane of white hair. A talisman hung around his neck marking him as an Elementalist. “Lady Fiona,” he said, glancing down at his notes for the day, “our first petitioner is a rancher from the southern fringes of the peninsula. He seeks to buy land from the crown.”

The man in question stood and stepped forward, glancing around nervously before bowing down to one knee in front of her. “My lady,” he murmured. “I am Gregor bar Warren di Oceana. I have a small ranch outside the town of Lydell. I have an offer to buy more head of cattle from a neighboring rancher, but I’m afraid the lands I have wouldn’t be enough to feed them all.”

“How much were you looking to buy?” Fiona asked.

“But five acres, my Lady,” he said.

“Lord Arick,” Fiona began, turning towards one of her father’s councilors – a man who specialized in such topics – “do you deem his proposal worthy, taking into account his current acreage and the number of cattle he plans to acquire?”

Lord Arick looked up from his papers, startled. The expression on his face made it clear that he hadn’t expected the young daughter of Lord Conrad to know his role in her father’s council. “Yes Lady Fiona, his proposal seems prudent – even conservative. It seems he feared asking too much.”

“Do you suppose that in this quest for conservatism, he might risk taking too little and overgrazing his lands?” Fiona asked.

Lord Arick’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. How did a pretty little thing like Conrad’s eldest even know what overgrazing was? “It would depend on the season,” Arick admitted. “A drought could spell trouble for the man.”

Fiona turned back toward Gregor, who still knelt before her. “Do you believe this to be true, Gregor bar Warren?”

“I did not want to seem greedy, my Lady,” Gregor bowed his head.

“How many acres do you suppose you might need in order to feed your herd in all seasons?” Fiona asked.

“I –” Gregor sighed. “Perhaps seven, my lady. That would allow me to rest some fields on alternate years.”

“That seems sensible, does it not? We should hardly like to strip our beautiful peninsula of its resources,” Fiona reminded the man. “Now Master Gregor, to what markets do you sell your product, and of what nature is your product?”

“I cater mostly to the city, although I’ll travel to the local markets in my wagon on feast days,” Gregor said, warming to the topic. “I do a fair bit of dairy, but mostly I stud cattle and raise them for meat. I make enough on the calves to turn some profit and help my family live comfortably.”

“Lord Halin?” Fiona asked, turning to one of her father’s many bookkeepers.

“His accounts support what he has said, my Lady. Might I add, he has always paid his taxes in full and on time,” Halin replied.

Fiona nodded, working to keep her composure and pay no mind to the way her heart hammered within her breast. “Lord Arick, do you suppose we have the land to sell, and if so, at what price?”

“We do, my Lady. I imagine we would do well to sell it at one hundred Royals per acre.”

“And that is a fair price?” Fiona asked, turning back to Lord Halin.

“I would say so, my Lady,” Halin nodded.

“Then Gregor bar Warren, you have your answer. Should you choose to expand your business, it will be seven hundred Royals in exchange for the deed to the seven acres most adjacent to your lands. If that is a price you do not wish to accept, then you will have to decline the offer of your neighboring rancher. I will not permit you to buy a lot that will not support your cattle, as it will only serve to injure your prospects and the prospects of Anaphe. What say you?”

“I accept, my Lady. Thank you. Thank you Lord Arick, Lord Halin,” Gregor said, bowing further.

“Then the matter is settled. Lord Arick, Lord Halin, I expect to have the deed drawn up this afternoon. I would like to sign it before I take my meal this evening. Lord Arick, you will meet with Master Gregor tomorrow morning in order to sign the deed and arrange for a time when the prospector might travel to Lydell.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the two councilors said in unison.

Towards the front of the room, another man stood. Silky black hair fell straight past his shoulders, offsetting pale skin. Dark eyes glittered fiercely as he strode up the aisle towards the dais. “This is preposterous,” he bit out, coming to stand next to Gregor’s kneeling form.

“Is there a problem, Lord Samir?” Fiona asked, willing her voice to sound calmer than she felt. “I did not know that you had an opinion on the particulars of Lydell’s cattle.”

Samir let out a bark of incredulous laughter. “You have no business playing at politics, girl,” he spat.

The crowd began to murmur. Fiona took in a sharp breath. She had expected quiet insubordination, certainly, but nothing quite as dramatic as Samir’s denial of her claim. Then again, Samir had always coveted Anaphe for his own, as one of Duke Edmund’s spoilt nephews. “You would do well to remember to address your superiors with more respect,” she ground out.

“You are hardly suited—”

“You, Lord Samir, are in no position to make such claims. Lord Conrad has three heirs, all of them women. It is a fact to which you will be forced to accustom yourself.”

“I will do no such thing,” Samir threatened.

“Is that so?” Fiona asked with a deadly smile. “Then that is an impulse borne of your covetous heart, for it is no secret in this court that you were a ready opponent of my father’s rule – not because of his principles, but because you would have liked to call yourself viceroy in his stead.”

“And I would—”

“I am not finished,” Fiona thundered. The room went silent. “I hold the province of Anaphe in trust, in the name of King Adrianth of Oceana, until I receive other instructions. If I am relieved by another by the will of the King, then so be it: I will gladly relinquish my seat at such a time. Until then, it would behoove you to remember that any opposition to my rule is tantamount to treason.”

Samir grappled for words. Before he could form a smart reply, however, Captain Malcolm himself stepped up from his position at parade rest next to the viceroy’s chair. “I, Malcolm bar Orin, have long since sworn myself to the service of King and country. As Captain of the City Guard, I recognize Lady Fiona’s claim to the viceroyalty. My Lady has sworn to hold Anaphe in the name of my King and country. Any man or woman who dares dispute her claim will find themselves at the mercy of the City Guard. You have been forewarned.”

A look of pure venom was exchanged between Samir and Malcolm. After a moment Samir caved, turning and stalking off through the arched doorway at the back of the hall. His departure – alongside Captain Malcolm’s strong words – only served to renew and amplify the murmurs that hummed throughout the room. Before all was lost to chaos, Fiona herself stood, tapping her staff twice upon the dais. The familiar sound bade the room fall silent once again.

“Make no mistake,” she bit out, grey-green eyes addressing those assembled, “It is not within your best interests to underestimate my House. I am no simpleton. I know that my father – Lord Conrad, beloved subject of the King – was murdered.”

“Lady Fiona,” Lord Halin said soothingly, attempting to calm her ire.

“Let’s not mince words, councilor. I was at his side when he took his last breath. My father was poisoned. The trap was wrought from the inside. One of you poisoned my father in order to rise to power here in Oceana’s second city. To what end we can well imagine, for the enemy of my late father surely must also be an enemy of peace. You can rest assured that I will find the man who killed my father, and when I do, he will wish for the comfort of Fángon’s arms long before I am through with him,” Fiona spat.

“Lord Conrad’s great deeds in Anaphe will not be forgotten. The council will stand with you in this, Lady Fiona: we will find the man who murdered your father, and we will bring him to justice. We follow your lead in that and in all things,” the elder councilor swore.

“I accept your pledge, Lord Jarmon,” Fiona said before looking out over the assembled crowd. “Should any not wish to swear their continued fealty to the viceroy, to Anaphe, and to Oceana, they may leave. But be forewarned: the penalty for passing from this room without swearing fealty is banishment. Do not make the mistake of thinking you will cross our borders unmolested.”

Malcolm watched from his place in the wings as Fiona stepped off the dais, moving throughout the room and accepting the renewed pledges of her subjects. She spoke with a gravity that belied her youth; it was as though the loss of her father had aged her immeasurably. Fiona took the hands of her loyal subjects, smiling kindly down at them with gentle words and firm promises for a bright future. For the others – those who knelt because they were too cowardly to turn tail and run – she spared no more than a few pointed remarks.

When it was all ended, Fiona called for a welcome recess. This had been a calculated move on her part: her intention to take the viceroyalty had been a well-kept secret since Conrad’s death. She knew that the councilors and noblemen would need a few hours to talk amongst themselves and get used to the idea that a girl who had just reached her majority would now be the figurehead for the Anaphean court. In the meantime, she had allies to woo.

Fiona banged her staff on the dais twice to adjourn the meeting, and swept towards the door at the wings of the room. She greeted Malcolm with a weary smile before turning into the corridor. As was his duty, he followed at her shoulder and escorted her down the hall to the antechamber where she had copious notes prepared. He had ensured that coffee and a small breakfast had been brought up from the kitchen as well. Fiona would need all of the strength she could get.

Malcolm entered the room and shut the door. They would be alone for a few blissful moments before the councilors began to come calling. Fiona turned to face him, face pale, lip quivering.

“Gods, Malcolm. I thought I would dissolve into a wreck when Samir stood. I almost lost the whole gambit,” she whispered.

Malcolm stepped forward automatically, folding her into his arms. She buried her face into the soft fabric at his shoulder. “I couldn’t tell. You did beautifully. You were the very picture of authority.”

“You think so?” she asked, voice muffled against the fabric of his uniform.

“Absolutely. Had you commanded it, I daresay you could have convinced half of those stodgy old councilors to follow you into battle,” Malcolm smiled. “I hope you won’t mind if I borrow from your oratory repertoire.”

“Now you’re just poking fun,” Fiona complained, unable to help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Though I appreciate the compliment. I hope I did not sound too angry: no seasoned veteran of local politics wants a shrew for a viceroy.”

“You did not speak out of turn. Your father was murdered, and your grief and anger were evident yet not inappropriate.”

Fiona sighed, hands fisting in the fabric of his livery. “I could have pounded that idiot Samir’s face into the cobbles with a flagon.”

“Now that, on the other hand, might have been over the top.”

“Yet I’m almost positive that Lord Jarmon would have held his limbs steady as I did so,” Fiona smiled.

“As I would have sat on his back to still his struggles, but that’s neither here nor there. You performed beautifully.”

“I was fortunate that the first petition was so simple a matter.”

“Lord Jarmon may not have been privy to your decision to assume the viceroyalty, but he is certainly no fool,” Malcolm shook his head. “He knew that he was granting a boon to someone.”

They fell silent for a few moments, Malcolm rocking Fiona gently and placing occasional kisses upon the top of her head. “You have a keen mind for politics as well, Captain Malcolm.”

“I doubt I would have come so far in the City Guard had I not,” Malcolm said wryly. “I suppose you and I have both done our fair share of eavesdropping over the past several years.”

“And such habits will have to continue, for all of our sakes.”

There was a knock at the door. Malcolm stepped backwards, motioning for Fiona to take her seat. As she began to butter her bread, he opened the door to reveal Lord Jarmon and two more of the elder councilors. All three bowed respectfully before entering the room and taking the offered seats.

“Well Lady Fiona,” Lord Jarmon rumbled, “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

Fiona sighed. She did, but only up to a point. Dispatches had been sent to Armathia a week earlier. With any luck, they would hear back from the King within six weeks. He would either legitimize her claim, or name her replacement. She needed to hold Anaphe until then.

“As do I, Lord Jarmon. As do I.”

…

Valory plucked the piece of sea glass from the sand, examining its fine shape and color. It was a perfect specimen; the same turquoise as the ocean that stretched for miles before him. He continued to pick his way down the beach, avoiding the sharp edges of partially covered corals and the spines of washed up sea creatures. The coral rock church was before him, carved into the limestone bluffs at the edge of Old Town.

They had reached Lyre that morning. While Callum and Arden busied themselves with refitting _Windjammer_ , Valory and his men had gone ashore and started making inquiries. The news they gathered hadn’t been pleasant: most of the sailors they spoke to had recently seen either creatures or unmarked vessels in Lyrian waters. Many were hesitant to give up any news at all. Valory suspected that some of the more seasoned sailors would have to be plied with drink later that night. To that end he had dismissed his men to do what they would with the afternoon – particularly Imran, who had been thrilled to see dry land for the first time in nearly two weeks.

Valory had run a few errands, but found himself drawn towards the quiet waterfront church just after taking his meal. It would not do to pass through without a prayer and an offering, hence the hour he had spent combing the beach for suitable gifts. With the sea glass sitting comfortably in his pocket, he climbed the carved-out steps up to the church.

The church itself was a simple affair, open to the air, with three altars surrounding a beautifully carved coral rock centerpiece. It had been made to look like a three-masted tall ship, though wind and rain and time had worn it down at the edges. The three altars, however, were lovingly tended by priests who came over every morning from the center of Old Town. There was a church there as well, of course, but Valory found that he preferred the quiet of this place to the bustle of worshippers in town.

Valory knelt first at Fángon’s altar and laid a glossy black pebble upon it. He was alone in the church, and felt at ease speaking aloud as he bowed his head in prayer. “Fángon, Captain of the _Ship of Lost Souls_ , keeper of the locker, Lord of all that lies below . . . thank you. Thank you for the sequestration of Zathár. Thank you for keeping all else that is evil within your depths. Thank you for allowing your beloved sister to continue her journey across the ocean with those more worthy, night after night, so that some of your children might find rest and peace in the world beyond.” Valory sighed, running a hand along the altar. “Thank you for bearing me up from the depths that night, long ago, when I was certain that I would die. I know it was you who prevented me from sinking to the locker. I know it was you who gave me to Ranael’s arms.”

He said a quick prayer before standing and moving towards Ranael’s altar. There he laid a beautiful shell, rose colored with perfect ivory spines splayed across its back. Again he knelt and bowed his head in prayer. “Ranael, Lord of ships, storms, and the sea – how can I thank you for all of the blessings you have bought? Thank you for the safe passage from Anaphe. Thank you for the brisk weather and the beautiful sails. Thank you for keeping _Windjammer_ and her crew in your good graces all of these years. Thank you for giving a home to a man for whom I have begun to harbor no small amount of affection.” Valory smiled. “Though I suppose you well know that, my Lord. As always I thank you, as I thanked Fángon, for bearing me on your back all of those long miles to Ithaka when it would have been so easy a thing to let me drown.”

Valory moved to Illen’s altar last where he laid his piece of sea glass. He knelt, pressing both of his palms to her altar in supplication. “Illen, Captain of the _Ship of the East_ , your humble servant begs for but a moment of your time. First, my thanks – for it is you who has borne the souls of my ancestors, friends, and loved ones eastward after their passing, so that one day I might meet with them again. My thanks for my own deliverance as well, for I know that you saw it in your heart to heal my wounds and give me a second chance at life that night. Thank you. For my gift, for the gifts of my family . . . and for Arden’s gifts – for none could have been so deserving of a second talent as he.”

Valory swallowed, rubbing the mosaic work of the altar with his palm. “Please show my father mercy when you take him. Please let him know that he was loved by me – for he is too far gone to hear and understand the words these days. Show kindness to the honorable soldiers you see in the coming days, for I fear that many will cross the ocean with you ere we see a resolution to the conflict at our borders. Please Illen, please – grant me the strength to accept my duty in Anaphe. Help me find some shade of equanimity and grace within myself, that I might rule there with an open heart and a level head. Help me gratefully accept Conrad’s pledge. Prevent me from putting distance between us with my selfish desires. Help me . . .” he sighed tiredly. “Help me banish these terrible, fruitless dreams I have in which I imagine Arden my Steward instead.”

He stopped speaking aloud at that, unable to give voice to the rest of his desires. He begged of Illen quietly, head bowed, eyes shut. It was just as well that he did, for mere moments later a set of footfalls could be heard winding up the limestone steps to the church.

Valory knew Arden was approaching without opening his eyes. He could feel the other man’s enchantment wrap around his own and settle easily in the center of his chest. It felt almost akin to sinking into his bunk at the end of a long day, or slinging an arm around a good friend, or taking a bite out of one of the palace’s sweetened soaked mangoes. It was simple, comfortable, comforting.

The shuffle of steps took the same path that Valory had taken, going first to Fángon’s altar, then a few minutes later to Ranael’s. Finally Arden came to kneel next to his Prince. Valory dared a sideways glance; Arden was praying with a palm upon the altar, a piece of twine twisted into a beautiful decorative knot next to his hand. After a few moments Arden finished his prayer and looked back to Valory, meeting his gaze. “You’ve been here for a while,” he noted. “Gabe said you left town hours ago.”

“I spent some time collecting my offerings, but yes, I suppose I have. I have much to thank them for.” He could plainly see the question in Arden’s eyes.

“Please, I,” Arden shook his head, “I was not questioning your devotion.”

“I did not mean to imply that you were. Simply that . . .” Valory trailed off.

Arden noticed immediately when Valory’s fingers came up to reflexively touch the silver-tinged scar at his temple. “That’s a beauty,” he remarked.

“It happened long ago,” Valory shrugged. The words didn’t come out quite as dismissively as he had meant them to, and Arden’s curiosity was piqued.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Before he realized what he was doing, Arden reached up and touched the scar, grazing it lightly with the pads of his fingers. He felt as though the wind had gotten knocked out of his lungs. For a moment his vision went black, and all he could hear were clicking sounds. Then, a single image flashed before his eyes – a creature with translucent flesh, a proud crown of tentacles, knobby webbed fingers that led to long deadly claws, fish-like eyes set into a face shaped almost like a man’s –

Arden ripped his hand back, staring at Valory in shock. He had never had a vision so clear before. “I’ve never heard of a man who was marked by a sea-witch and lived to tell the tale,” he breathed.

“What?” Valory asked, stunned both by Arden’s guess and the sudden wave of nausea he felt.

“I just saw it. I just saw . . . I had a vision,” Arden supplied, lamely.

“You told me that your visions were more intuitive,” Valory murmured, inwardly cursing the nausea that so reliably followed Arden’s use of his enchantment.

“Not that one,” Arden almost laughed. “I’ve never . . . Gods, listen to me, I’m incoherent . . . you must understand, I’ve never had a proper vision in my life. And sea-witches! No wonder Imran hates them so.”

“Imran hasn’t heard this story from me,” Valory countered. “I daresay his experience on _Windjammer_ these past two weeks is all the encouragement he’ll need to continue hating the sea until the day he dies.”

“Would you tell the story to me?” Arden asked, nodding back towards the scar. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, though I daresay I might have already seen it with my own eyes.”

“I—” Valory sighed. “It’s no great tale. What I remember is admittedly spotty.”

“No matter.”

It was clear that Arden wasn’t going to be swayed. Valory shifted into a more comfortable position as he reluctantly began his story. “The first time I ever took a boat abroad was when I was twenty-two. I was a part of a diplomatic envoy to Halen, meant to meet one of Saria’s high councilors.”

“The trade agreements,” Arden put in.

“Yes. I had little to do with forming them, of course, but the presence of King Adrianth’s second son was meant to be a bit of a political lubricant – a show of good will that would doubtlessly speed the agreement to a favorable conclusion. Unfortunately I never did make it to Halen on that trip. One night when we were in open ocean, our ship was set upon by sea-witches. By and large we were winning the battle; a diplomatic envoy is heavily-armed, after all. The sea-witches were a terrible sight to behold, though I daresay they were not spoiling for the kind of fight they got.”

“They rarely attack entire crews outright. Usually they are content to take a man or two off the deck in the dead of night. An entire pack of sea-witches can feed off of a single sailor,” Arden shrugged.

“Who knows their motives that night, then. Perhaps they were hungry. Although . . . but no, I’m getting ahead of myself. The battle was terrible, with the creatures crawling on deck from all sides. I was young still, and horrified at the sight of them. They have the most gruesome faces, half-man and half-fish.”

“Valory, this might sound like a strange request, but . . .” Arden continued wordlessly, lifting a hand up towards the scar.

“You think I amplified your enchantment, before?” Valory asked.

“Or the place did,” Arden said, acknowledging that they were seated upon Illen’s altar. “May I?”

Valory caught Arden’s hand in his own and brought it to his brow. He held it there, palm pressed against the back of Arden’s hand, which in turn was pressed to the side of his face. He continued, fighting against the way his stomach roiled. “It seemed as though the tide had turned, and that we were winning the battle. Are you alright?”

“I can see it as you’re telling it,” Arden said with no small amount of wonder. He could. The deck was littered with blood and the corpses of sea-witches. Men dressed in Oceanic livery were fighting, calling to one another, shouting over the hissing and clicking language of the witches. “Go on, please. Go on.”

“I had just run one of the creatures through, and could see no more of their kind on deck. I thought that we had vanquished them all when I saw a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw a terrible creature, a mighty specimen of a sea-witch, poised to strike.”

Arden gasped. He saw the same sea-witch again. He felt something cold grab at the edges of his mind, tugging him insistently towards the image that hovered before his eyes. At first he allowed it, wondering where else this vision might take him. As the image of the sea-witch grew clearer, however, he felt his vision begin to go dark. He pulled his hand back from Valory’s grasp. “Yes, it was a terrible creature,” he murmured.

“Are you alright?”

“Sea-witches catch their prey in many ways. Some amongst them have very powerful magic – it is said that few can resist their call. I suppose I felt some of it. Residual or not, it is a dangerous thing. I will not attempt the vision again. But I would hear the rest of your story anyway, if you would tell it,” Arden said.

Valory regarded him with no small amount of concern, but continued his tale. “I was caught out. The thing got me with its claws. I thought for certain I had lost my eye, though I suppose I was blinded by all of the blood. I stumbled backwards, tripping over something. I remember feeling my shins hit the caprail, and how warm the water felt when I fell over. I prayed to Illen for my soul as I felt something drag me under.  After that, I knew no more.”

“But you didn’t die, obviously, so what happened?” Arden asked.

“Truth be told I don’t really know. I have no memory of it at all. The next time I opened my eyes I was in a cot in an Ithakan temple, in the care of the Master Empath. He is a kind man, though I find his company unnerving; it was nigh on impossible to keep him out of my head. He thought at first that I must have been picked up by a fisherman. Indeed that was the story so far as we knew it until the day one of his underlings took the bandages off of my head. The priest who changed my dressings was a Seer, and had a mighty vision upon beholding my scar. _‘Protected by Fángon, borne here by Ranael, and healed by Illen’_ he said. At first I thought them no more than pretty words, but the man was adamant. The Master Empath seemed to agree with him; he said that there was something about my presence that suggested I had been touched by Illen. When I left their care, he said, ‘ _Illen has seen great value in you, and has given you something to show for it.’_ What he meant by that . . .” Valory shrugged. “Of course the scar turned the color that you see it now. I thought it was healing improperly, and went to see the Master Healer about it when I returned home. The man nearly had a fit; it turns out that I bear the mark of the Sea-Witch King. I am very lucky to have escaped with my life.”

After a heartbeat of silence, Arden said, “It is a fine tale, though I suppose I understand why you choose not to tell others about it in favor of coming here to thank Illen for her gift.”

“Beg your pardon?” Valory asked, perplexed.

Arden stared back at him for a long moment. “The gift that Illen gave you – you never speak of it, even when prompted.”

“My enchantment?”

“Precisely.”

“But I was twenty-two when I met the Sea-Witch King,” Valory said. “My Elemental talent had long since reached maturation.”

Arden furrowed his brow. It wasn’t possible that the man simply didn’t know, was it? “The _other_ one, Valory. Our enchantments are too friendly for you to hide it from me, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“In the famous words of my father: close your mouth, you’ll catch flies like that.” Arden shook his head. “Truly though, you can’t mean that you thought the Master Empath’s words mere hyperbole. Illen healed you herself, and she gave you something to remember her by.”

“You can’t be implying what I think you’re implying.”

“Implying? I thought I had said it plainly: I’m not the only one here with a surfeit of gifts,” Arden replied.

“But I don’t have a second enchantment,” he answered. Was Arden mad, to think so?

“Are you having one over on me? I thought you were trying to hide it from others or I would have said something sooner. No wonder you don’t get along with anyone – your talisman should have been blessed a second time when you returned to Armathia,” Arden threw up his hands. “I can’t believe this.”

“Blessed a second time in Armathia,” Valory repeated, feeling like a simpleton. “By whom? By the Master Healer? Are you saying I’m a Healer?”

“You really didn’t know,” Arden said, no small amount of wonder in his voice.

“How long have you thought this? And why haven’t I ever noticed, if I’m a Healer, as you claim,” Valory countered.

“I knew from the day on the docks when I pulled that little trick with Lord Samir and his hat. It was part of the reason I told you what I told you – and assumed you would understand.”

“You never said anything,” Valory countered.

“I didn’t think I had to. You put your hand on my shoulder, remember? Admittedly I had not drained myself very much through such a simple trick, but the contact took some of the strain away from me. You must have felt it, for you took it. I cannot imagine you did so by accident. Or did you?”

Valory opened his mouth to reply before shutting it again. He had thought that the nausea when touching Arden after the man exercised his enchantment was simply due to the way their signatures interacted. Then again, didn’t Little always complain of nausea when doing his work – something about acting as a sink rather than a conduit? Valory had never taken the time to question him about the particulars of his art.

“So you’re saying that . . .” Valory made a vague gesture with one hand.

The wind picked up, veritably howling through the altar for a moment, before dying down. Arden extended his forearm to Valory to clasp. “Concentrate, this time.”

Valory reached out, clasping their forearms together. He felt, for the briefest of moments, energy exchange between Arden and himself. Then the nausea struck him, and he pulled away. He shook his head to clear it, frowning.

“I think I preferred it when I thought your signature was just wretched.”

Arden laughed. “Unbelievable. How have you not discovered this before now?”

“I don’t make much of a habit of clapping people on the shoulder after they do their work,” Valory frowned. “I don’t make a habit out of clapping people on the shoulder ever, really. And I don’t understand why the Master Empath wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Valory you clod, he probably thought it inconceivable that you hadn’t figured it out yet! Gods, Illen must be beating her head against the mast in frustration. It’s been nigh on fifty years.”

Valory, for his part, looked as though he was fighting a smile. “I suppose she must be a mite annoyed with me at this point,” he admitted. “Still, this seems unbelievable. I should hardly like to sound ungrateful, but I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with the one enchantment I already knew I had. A second?”

“At the very least we know you don’t have a secret third. This whole debacle has soundly proven your inability for telepathy – ow!”

“My idiocy aside, since when are you the recipient of perfect visions?” Valory asked.

“As you suggested, it must be amplification of a sort. Your enchantment, the location, the two combined . . .”

“It might do for you to return to see the Master Seer on Kilcoran when we head that way,” Valory suggested. “Or for both of us to, if this happens again.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to recapture that vision. There was something off about it – not that I profess to be in any way knowledgeable about such things.”

“Sailors survive on gut feelings,” Valory shrugged. “Besides, I highly doubt you would want to revisit that vision of the Sea-Witch King. He was an awful creature.”

“Awful and insidious,” Arden agreed. “I’m of a mind that we put the whole matter to rest unless it happens again. Like you said, you have a history of accidentally amplifying the enchantments of others – with Little at least – so I am not terribly optimistic that I might use you to become clairvoyant.”

Valory snorted. “Just as well. I grew up with two powerful Seers in my family; I’m sick of people speaking to me in terms of riddles and dreamscapes.”

“I can imagine so,” Arden said, leaning back against the coral rock sculpture.

They remained there for several hours, unaware of the passage of time even as the shadows lengthened and the sun moved westward toward the horizon. It wasn’t until the church began to grow dim that they realized they had tarried too long and were at risk of missing the rendezvous time with the rest of their party. As twilight set in, soldier and sailor picked themselves up off of carved coral rock, wound their way down age-old steps, and headed back to town side-by-side. A hot, fresh meal was calling.

…

“Bad business, if you ask me,” the sailor said, glancing around the tavern before grasping the mug of ale Valory had bought him. “Creatures, pirate vessels, all manner of devilry. They sent some navy men out from the fort on Kythria. Rumor has it they met sea-witches during their patrol.”

“Sea-witches? Are you certain?”

“That’s what they’re saying. Me and my crew were over in Kalma a few days past. We were at the dock offloading our cargo when the patrol came back in. One look at those lads and you could tell something happened. The word that night was sea-witches. I believe it.”

“Is that the only incident of witches you’ve heard of?” Valory pressed.

“That’s the only one I’d put me name on. We’ve seen some of the other creatures, though, the ones that shrink from fire,” the man offered.

“As have I. And of the pirates?”

“We see the lights from their vessels on the horizon, but they haven’t strayed near land yet. I’ve heard tell of a few merchant and navy vessels disappearing – no doubt they have a hand in that.”

“What makes you say that?” Valory asked.

“Well it all seems like a cozy coincidence, if you ask me – the creatures, the witches, those unknown vessels. They’re not Oceanic, mark my words,” the sailor said. “That’s all I can tell you, sir. Bad luck enough as it is to be speaking of such things in times like these.”

“Of course,” Valory nodded, getting up from the table. “May the wind be at your back, sailor.”

“And at yours, stranger.”

Valory slowly headed back to _Windjammer_ ’s table, feeling defeated. The news had been uniformly bad, which was more or less what he was expecting, but contained nothing specific or reliable enough to be useful. Little met him halfway to the table. A shake of his big blonde head was all Valory needed to see to know that his venture had been equally unsuccessful.

“Everyone knows something’s wrong, but no one knows what it is. Poor buggers are terrified, too. Have to get them three sheets to the wind before they’ll even think about giving me more than the vaguest details, and by then the ale muddles their memories. Damn superstitions lot,” Little sighed.

“We know more based on what we saw the night of the squall than we’ve learned in Old Town, that’s certain,” Valory added.

“Anyone else you want to chat with? Looks like Gabe’s finished with his bit, and I’ll wager he didn’t learn much more than us.”

“No, no. We’re through for the night, and the three of you are officially stood down until tomorrow morning. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Aye sir,” Little laughed, clapping Valory on the shoulder before moving to join their table. Valory followed him, perching at the edge of the remaining empty seat just as Gabriel threw down a winning card.

Delighted shouts rose up from around the table. Gabriel smugly sipped at his ale, giving those assembled a glance that said nothing if not _‘I told you so.’_ Niko was beside himself. “You just read my mind! You just . . . I thought . . . my hand . . .”

“When I told you I was banned from playing Ante in taverns on three out of four isles, did you think I was speaking in jest?” Gabe asked, arching a brow.

“Alright, alright – we get your point. Let’s have us a game of Chance then, that we might regain some of our pride,” Lars grinned. “Anyone else for a hand?”

“I’m in,” Little slapped the table.

“I am as well,” Arden said. The sailors’ eyes turned to regard Valory expectantly.

“Oh alright, deal them out,” he relented, tossing a flatbread cracker into the ‘pot’. The enthusiastic words of approval that greeted him were due in part to drink, but also to how rare his indulgences seemed. Valory made a mental note to submit to card games with more frequency in the future.

Arden had begun talking up his hand before Valory even picked up his cards. The Prince smiled at his friend’s good-natured bluffing. Niko squinted at his cards for a moment, looking up abruptly as Gabriel began to laugh.

“Don’t stare like that, you’re making it far too easy,” he said. “And you, Lord Arden, have no place bragging with that abysmal—”

“I can set you on fire. You do know that, don’t you?” Arden asked. Valory let out a startled snort of laughter.

“The rub is, I also know you wouldn’t,” Gabe said, toothy grin lighting up his boyish features. Gabriel also must have known that Arden – raised in court as he was – could keep him out of his mind with minimal effort, but they kept that knowledge to themselves.

Their good-natured exchange was interrupted by an undignified yelp as the buxom barmaid who had been speaking with Imran and Jonah unceremoniously dumped the dregs of a mug straight into Imran’s lap. She stalked off in a huff, head held high. Jonah, for his part, nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Imran wiped at his tunic with distaste.

“What the devil did you say, Dramorian?” Lars asked as Little remarked,

“I suppose Jonah isn’t quite the instructor he made himself out to be.”

“I told her she was a fine-looking full-figured woman,” Imran said. The table roared with laughter.

“No, no –” Ehrin interrupted, “he said she was fine-looking _for_ a full-figured woman,” she clarified, choking the words out over near-uncontrollable giggles.

Arden threw his head back laughing. Valory took a moment to admire the sight before quipping, “Truly Imran, I’m surprised she didn’t hit you with the mug after she emptied it.”

“But she is both fine-looking and full-figured!” Imran defended. “I paid her a compliment; I do not understand this fuss.”

Ehrin, taking pity on the Dramorian, laid a hand on his arm. “Oh Imran, take counsel from a woman in this: she thinks you called her fat.”

At Imran’s indignant noise of protest, Valory added, “Very well, Imran, you said that she was decent looking in spite of being fat – a noble attempt at flattery. Illen knows I’d fall at the feet of any who sweet talked me so.”

“Who knew that pretty words are all one might need to woo a Prince?” Arden teased as another barmaid made the rounds, taking empty cups. As she bent in front of Jonah’s shoulder to reach the table, Jonah said,

“Now love, there’s the finest thing I’ve seen all day.”

The barmaid smiled and winked, patting him on the cheek before bustling away to serve another table. Imran looked up from his ale-sodden tunic in disbelief. “You are toying with me, surely.”

Jonah stretched, rubbing his knuckles against the front of his shirt. “I s’pose it just comes naturally to me.”

“You conceited oaf,” Ehrin laughed, cuffing him on the shoulder.

“You only say that, my dear Lady of the Galley, because I have not turned my many charms upon you,” Jonah said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Nor will you, if you’d like to keep your legs,” Callum said, approaching the table, two more men at his side.

“Ahoy _Windjammer_ and her guests,” one said, leaning up against the table.

“Peter, mate, how’ve you been?”’ Jonah asked, standing up to clasp the other sailor’s arm.

“Well enough, with things as they are. We heard you pulled into port today and figured we would find you all here, drinking away your pay,” Peter replied.

“Slander,” Arden said, smiling over the tops of his cards.

“As if you’ve never left the tavern in your cups,” Peter ribbed.

“Not another word out of you,” Arden threatened.

“Lads, you remember the time we found Jack here sound asleep on the end of the pier?”

Arden groaned, hiding his face in his cards. “Must we regale everyone with that tale _again_?”

“Stayed out all night, probably found himself some friendly company,” Jonah put in, elbowing Arden in the ribs.

“And got too sauced to find his own dock slip at the end of the night, did he?” Little asked.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk. _Windjammer_ took a ball out in the anchorage and I was late to the rendezvous for the launch. These fine gentlemen left me in town – what was I supposed to do? I slept on the end of the pier.”

“I see, sir,” Little smiled.

“Oh, as if you’ve never been delayed by revelry before,” Arden rolled his eyes. “Really, I’d think the time that Jonah had to swim back to _Windjammer_ naked as the day he was born would be more memorable for you lot. After all, the whore drank him under the table and took all of his clothes and coin after he passed out.” He smiled devilishly. “At least when I missed the launch, I’d gotten what I came for.”

The men around the table hooted, slapping Arden on the back. “Alright you dogs, enough of your bragging. I came over to see if Jonah might take up the fiddle. For a right bastard he sure can play a tune,” Peter said, gesturing to the beaten-up black case that sat at Jonah’s side.

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Jonah laughed, standing up with the case. “Lars, Little – you’ll have to step up in my absence and help this Dramorian find a bit of skirt. He’s not yet hopeless.”

“As long as he keeps his paws off that ginger barmaid over there, we’ve got a deal,” Lars said, gesturing towards the far side of the room.

“Have your mark already, do you?” Arden teased.

“And my marksmanship, sir, is excellent,” he replied.

Peter and Jonah left for the front of the room where the musicians had been playing earlier. Lars slid around to fill Jonah’s empty seat while Callum returned back to the captain’s table that gathered in the corner. Valory entertained some hopes that _Windjammer_ ’s captain might return with better information than he had been able to gather.

The first notes of a well-known ditty soared above the chatter as Jonah’s bow and fingers flew through the opening measures. Peter had picked up an accordion and accompanied him, his jolly tenor leading the patrons of the tavern into song. Around the room men and women raised their mugs and joined in. Some of the barmaids dragged sailors out of their chairs to dance; others leapt up on chairs or tables to pound out the steps with their heels.

Arden was feeling pleasantly buzzed – about as much as he ever let himself be on shore leave. It was a welcome relief after a tense two week passage. There was no point in holding back for propriety’s sake. He lifted his mug and joined in the song; it was one of the many to which he knew all of the words.

Valory watched the Steward’s son for a few moments. Arden’s mug was raised, his eyes smiled, his clear baritone belted out the words to a shanty about the passage through the isles. After a heartbeat he must have felt eyes on him, for he turned towards Valory as soon as the chorus began. He held out his mug, a gesture that Valory readily returned, clanking the glasses together in an impromptu toast. Arden’s smile grew as Valory joined in the next verse, holding his mug up high and shocking all of the sailors at the table as he proved that he, too, knew all the words to some of the filthiest verses in the song.

Arden laughed with delight as the Prince finished out the shanty with the rest of them, including the tongue-in-cheek bits about Kythrian famers’ daughters. Jonah segued into another song to the cheers and applause, fingers dancing across the strings. Peter followed his cue, and soon the singing and dancing had commenced again. Valory was leaning back in his chair, taking a long draught from his mug. Arden moved in towards him to be heard above the din.

“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” he asked, gesturing towards the crowded room.

Valory leaned in as well, close enough that their elbows touched. “The life of a sailor?” he asked.

“I know this isn’t your first time cruising the isles. Probably not even your second or third,” Arden said.

“And what makes you say that?” Valory murmured, arching a dark brow.

“I’ve been aboard the _Windjammer_ over a decade, now. I know the difference between a seasoned sailor and a new hand,” Arden reminded him. “Did you return to sea after you washed up on Ithaka’s shores?”

“One might think that an encounter with sea-witches would have turned me off from sailing, but the brief time I spent shipboard had the opposite effect,” Valory admitted. “My father and brother had to dissuade me from a naval career. At the time I was frustrated with them, but in retrospect I know they had my best interests in mind.”

“I can’t imagine you taking orders from anyone,” Arden agreed.

“Oh, had I been assigned to a competent and fair captain I’m sure I would have done just fine. But we both know that isn’t always the case.”

“Hm,” Arden said, smiling into his beer.

“What’s so funny?”

“I can only imagine how things would have gone if you and Bertrand had ever had the occasion to work with one another.”

“Are you implying that I would have been a combative charge?” Valory asked.

“Surely not, my Lord,” Arden said, smile belying the denial.

“And yet I do report directly to the King for a reason,” Valory said, a wry twist to his lips.

“Is that so?” Arden asked.

“I may have, at one point, told a man of no mean rank to take his orders and stuff them,” Valory replied.

“Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that exchange.”

“The look on his face was worth the fallout. He was the sort who thought that knighthood made him immune to such criticism. We disliked each other upon sight.”

“And that was your first campaign?” Arden asked.

“No, no. I was spoilt by my first campaign – my commander and I became good friends.” Valory spared a moment’s thought for Bryant. “This was my second campaign, for which I was the second in command. It didn’t go quite so smoothly. Unfortunately for Sir Stephen, my father agreed that his orders had been reprehensible. Every caning I got from him was repaid tenfold when we returned to Armathia.”

“That’s some gall, to cane the son of the King,” Arden whistled. “What were his orders?”

“The custom at the border in those days was to ransom any enemy soldiers who surrendered. Sir Stephen thought himself above such matters of ransoms and bribes and declared no quarter.”

“Barbaric,” Arden noted.

“Which aptly describes the punishment he received for caning me,” Valory said. “I was sent to Halen shortly thereafter – you know how that worked out – and thought I might be happier at sea than fighting in the desert. My father began by sending me on simple diplomatic missions, many of which required commissioning vessels such as _Windjammer_. As time went by, my role because less diplomatic and more mercenary. Finally I was granted permission to form my own unit.”

“And you learned to sail just . . .” Arden gestured at the tavern.

“Picking up ships and crews and traveling here and there? More or less, yes. My education is more practical than formal, I’ll admit.”

“I suppose I had thought that you might have held rank on a vessel in the past,” Arden said.

“I must simply be a quick study,” Valory quipped.

“For a landlubber,” Arden countered.

“A landlubber!” Valory said, indignant. “Unkind words from a Steward’s son.”

“A Steward’s son on land, perhaps, but an officer when we’re shipboard,” he teased, reminding Valory that he was theoretically of superior rank on board _Windjammer_.

Valory met his gaze. “Then it would seem I’m not so hopeless at taking commands after all.”

Arden swallowed. Their knees knocked together under the table.

Valory fought the effect that Arden’s proximity had on him, but the strength of his enchantment and the weight of his gaze was making it difficult. Their heads were bent so close that a few inches of compromise from either of them would bump their noses together. Valory’s mind ran back through the conversation he had overheard earlier, wondering for the first time whether or not the ‘agreeable company’ that had caused Arden to miss the launch might have been a bartender rather than a barmaid.

“Ehrin!” Jonah shouted, interrupting their reverie. He jumped to seat himself upon their table, fiddle in hand. Arden and Valory sprang apart.

“What now?” Ehrin asked, exasperated.

“Come on, let’s have us a song.”

“A song? This moment?”

“Yes this very moment my Lady of the Galley. I was thinking,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “that we might dedicate a spot of a shanty to our patron soldiers.”

“Is that so?” Ehrin asked, intrigued.

“Peter, E minor if you would,” Jonah said.

The accordion started up again as Jonah raised his fiddle. The notes must have been familiar to the assembled sailors, for a great cheer rose up from nearby tables. Ehrin drained the rest of her mug and leapt up onto the table behind Jonah, skirts swishing about her ankles as she danced in time with the music. A hush fell over the crowd as the violin quieted, preparing for the first verse. Ehrin began, her passable alto carrying throughout the room.

 _“Can’t you see the ships a coming_  
can’t you see them in full sail?  
Can’t you see the ships a coming  
with the prizes at their tail?  
Oh, my little rolling sailor  
oh, my little rolling he--  
how I love my rolling sailor  
when he’s on the rolling sea!”

Mugs clanked around the room as all took up the chorus:

_“When he’s on the rolling rolling  
when he’s on the rolling sea!”_

Ehrin smiled, tugging Arden and Valory to their feet. Hoots and hollers rang out from across the room, some cries of ‘thatta boy, Jack!’ reached their ears. _Windjammer_ ’s First Mate was a well-known man. Valory realized why they were being used as a prop as Ehrin began her next verse, gesturing first to Arden, then to him.

 _“Sailors they get all the money_  
soldiers they get naught but brass.  
How I love my rolling sailor,  
soldiers they can kiss my ass!  
Oh, my little rolling sailor  
oh, my little rolling he--  
how I love my rolling sailor  
when he’s on the rolling sea.”

The sailors roared their approval, banging their mugs on the table. Ehrin patted Valory’s cheek, throwing a wink over her shoulder at Arden. They both joined in the chorus with her good-naturedly.

 _“How can I be blithe and merry_  
with my lover far from me?  
All the pretty little sailors  
have been pressed and gone to sea.  
Oh, my little rolling sailor  
oh, my little rolling he--  
how I love my rolling sailor  
when he’s on the rolling sea.”

The chorus rang through the tavern again. Little, Gabe, and Imran were all fielding good-natured claps on the shoulder as they joined in despite the obvious insult to their own profession. Ehrin threw an arm around Peter’s shoulders as she finished off,

 _“But the wars will soon be over_  
and our sailors all at home;  
every lass will get her lad  
and we won’t have to sleep alone!”

The shanty finished with a roar. Ehrin smiled at Arden over her shoulder once more before Jonah launched into another popular tune. Valory glanced back and forth between them.

“Rolling sailor?” he asked, suddenly unsure whether or not he had completely misread the situation aboard the _Windjammer_.

“I taught it to her years ago.”

“Oh?”

Arden shrugged, sliding back down into his seat. “I’ve been working with Callum for a long time. She was a little thing when I came aboard as a deck hand, working as a cook and a cabin steward. We’ve all watched her grow up.”

“She’s a fine woman,” he noted.

“That she is. She’s had a tough time of it these past few years. She loves _Windjammer_ and her crew, but I think it gets lonely for her.”

“It’s rare to have a woman shipboard – especially an unmarried one,” Valory noted. “I imagine most wouldn’t understand. She’ll be looking for a fellow sailor.”

“You are a very roundabout interrogator, Val. To answer your unspoken question, yes, there was a time when she fancied me. It was years ago now, and she’s well past it.”

“Yet you didn’t share her company?” Valory asked.

“Oh, right, the Captain’s daughter – that would have been an excellent plan. Not to mention how awful it would have been for her and Callum to find out my real name, as I couldn’t have made an honest woman of her. No, I . . .” he shrugged, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

“Apologies, if my inquiry was too personal. I’m afraid my curiosity got the best of me,” Valory said.

“Not at all. But there’s nothing to tell.”

Arden drained the last of his ale as Ehrin finished another shanty, jumping down from the table. Jonah bowed out as well, citing exhaustion and thirst. Peter headed back towards the musicians who were taking up their posts again. After a few moments of shuffling and tuning, they started with an upbeat reel.

“Well sung, lass,” Lars announced proudly.

“Thank you, Lars. I saw that barmaid come over here, any luck?” she asked.

“I’m working on it, easy does it,” he answered.

Jonah laughed, dropping into a chair and draining the dregs of his own mug. “While you’re working on your courage, looks like that bloke’s working on your prize.”

Lars looked up and cursed. Sure enough, a uniformed sailor was chatting with the redheaded barmaid. “Those navy dogs – always going after my quarry!”

“Good luck with that,” Ehrin smirked, standing up and swaying back towards the musicians.

“Damn navy,” Lars was still muttering.

“Sounds like we need us another round,” Niko put in.

“Another round, a fair bit of luck, and we might even get a lady to come around for the Dramorian over here,” Jonah agreed. Imran rolled his eyes.

“Well lads, let’s have your mugs,” Valory said, standing up.

“You buying, sir?” Little asked cheekily.

“As a matter of fact, this one’s on the King,” Valory smirked. The sailors cheered, pounding the table in his honor as he wove his way through the room back toward the bar.

Imran stood up abruptly. “Little, come here.”

Little looked around confused before he saw what Imran was looking at; two barmaids chatting at the end of the bar as they waited for the bartender to refill the mugs. “I swear Imran, if I get ale thrown on me because of your awkward tongue—”

“Just shut up and walk,” Imran muttered, prodding Little toward the bar.

“Well,” Jonah said as they departed, glancing conspiratorially at Gabe, Niko, Lars, and Arden. “Now that it’s just us boys, let’s talk strategy. Jack, come on, stop woolgathering. Eyes on the prize.”

Arden pulled his eyes away from Valory’s retreating form. “Alright, I’ll give. What’s your scheme this time?”

“I have a few marks in mind, I’ll admit,” Jonah said, cracking his fingers.

“Am I meant to be interested?”

Jonah sighed, exasperated. “You know you’re my best second, can’t you just play along again like you usually do?” He didn’t fail to notice when Arden’s eyes flicked back towards the spot the Prince occupied at the bar. He grinned. “Or do you have your eye on a mark of your own this time?”

“Are we going to find you snoring on the edge of the pier again?” Lars asked.

“I don’t have a mark, Jonah,” Arden ground out between his teeth, darting a quick glance towards Gabriel.

“With all due respect Lord Arden, you don’t have to dissemble for my sake. I’ll keep mum on the subject,” Gabe said, shrugging.

“It’s a real pain in the ass to have your mind read constantly,” Niko said, pointedly.

“It’s a real pain in the ass to have to listen to people’s internal monologues as well. Jonah, you were saying?”

Jonah shrugged affably, taking Gabe’s words in stride. “So I take it you’re busy then, Jack?”

“I am not busy, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gabriel please do me the honor of not laughing when I lie – it’s disconcerting.”

“Alright gentlemen,” Gabe said, amused, “perhaps it’s best if I join Valory at the bar.”

Once he walked off, Arden’s crew spoke more freely. “So you _do_ have a mark, then,” Niko said.

“Stop it, all three of you. I’m sure everyone finds this terribly amusing, but if one whiff of a word passes your lips in front of our patron I swear I will keelhaul the lot of you.”

“You don’t think he’s . . . ?” Jonah made a vague gesture with one hand. “You spend an awful lot of time in one another’s company.”

“He’s engaged to the Duke of Anaphe’s daughter,” Arden said flatly. “Not only that, but I may very well one day walk into a position as his brother’s councilor. What’s that you said to me years back, when Ehrin was cottoning on to me?”

“Don’t shit where you eat,” Jonah admitted.

“Precisely. So that’s that, put it to bed.”

“He’ll find you out eventually,” Lars said.

“Not if I can help it. Gods only know what he’d think – nothing bad, I suppose, but I would rather it not get to that. I’d prefer we remain on good terms.”

“So . . . no mark then?” Niko asked.

Arden tossed a cracker at him. “No. So Jonah, you were saying – desperate for my skills as the Eastern World’s most uninterested second—”

“Which is exactly why you’re so good at it; you’ll never steal my girl.”

Arden sighed. “Alright, alright – which one is she?”

“That one over there, the brunette with the pink bodice. What do you think?”

“I suppose I find her pretty enough, though lacking a certain something,” Arden replied, popping a cracker into his mouth.

Jonah snorted. “Yeah, a cock. I meant for _me_ , you daft bugger – how do you like her for _me_?”

Scandalized laugher broke out at the table as Arden nearly choked on his cracker. “For Fángon’s sake,” he swore, coughing. “She looks well enough. I doubt she’s a professional which is a good thing considering your history with working girls—”

“Will you never let me live that down?”

“Never. Now which one of her friends am I meant to entertain?” Arden sighed.

“The blonde. Buy her a beer and get her dancing. Should do the trick.”

Arden sighed, resigned, as Valory and Gabriel returned to the table with fistfuls of mugs. Niko, Lars, and Jonah were all grinning stupidly as Arden hid his face in his hands, groaning. “You pitiless bastards, cut it out,” he said.

“What’s so amusing?” Valory asked, sliding back into his seat next to Arden and passing him a mug.

“Oh, nothing sir,” Lars said, smiling innocently. “Jack’s just agreed to be Jonah’s second with that pretty brunette over there and her friend. Since he’s so good at it, and all.”

Valory looked over at Arden’s annoyed expression with some amount of surprise. Jonah began to push his seat back. “Well, shall we get to it?”

Arden smirked at his friend, reaching for his beer and reclining in his chair. “Come now lads, where are your manners? Our patron just bought us a round – it would be terribly rude of us not to sit here and enjoy it with him.”

Jonah gaped at his First Mate for a moment before nodding, conceding the point. “Sorry if I got too eager, sir,” he apologized.

“No harm done. But Arden, if—” Valory began.

“To _Windjammer_ and her crew,” Arden said, cutting Valory off by raising his mug in a toast, “to Ranael and safe passage over sea.”

“Aye!” The men agreed, clanking their mugs together.

“And to the King, for his generosity,” Lars said, waggling his eyebrows. The men toasted again to that and fell back into comfortable chatter once more.

Valory slid his chair closer to Arden’s, resuming the position they had been in earlier. “You’re certain I’m not keeping you from other pursuits?” he asked, glancing over towards the objects of Jonah’s affection.

Arden sighed, leaning a knee against Valory’s. This was terribly, utterly inadvisable, but he found that he couldn’t help himself. Against his own words and his better judgment, he raised his eyes to meet Valory’s.

“Not at all,” he smiled, content. “I’m happy right where I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹ The shanty in this chapter was Eliza Carthy's Rolling Sea. You can YouTube it; it's pretty fantastic. The Ehrin in my head sings in her voice. You'll notice that I chopped some verses and changed some words around; that's a common thing for shantymen to do. They're entertainers, and they cater to their audience.


	7. Chapter 7

_The Season of Storms  
Ranád the 27; 2421_

_When he woke, shivering and exhausted, he had no idea where he was or how much time had passed. He vaguely remembered standing at the window looking over the bay, shutting his eyes, and letting the visions wash over him. He couldn’t remember what he Saw, but he remembered how panic had risen in his breast as blackness closed in, stealing his breath and clouding his vision. Dizzy, he had reached out to steady himself on the window sill, but his knees buckled before he could grab it. He felt the impact of his knees hitting the stone floor from far away, almost as though he were no longer a part of his own body. Then he knew no more._

_He looked around, unseeing, wondering for a moment whether or not he had somehow been blinded by his fall. He felt almost relieved when, upon bringing his hand directly in front of his face, he could see the slightest flicker of movement. He could still see, though he was admittedly not certain whether he was seeing or Seeing. He shivered again. The inky, blue-blackness surrounded him on all sides. The cold pressed in on him, chilling him down to the bone. He wrapped his arms around himself in a desperate attempt to create more warmth, knowing as he did at the gesture would be futile. The cold pressed at him from within and without._

_Panic was rising in his breast once more. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Who was holding him here? Was he simply going to die here, alone in the cold with no hope for escape or rescue? He felt a lump rise in his throat. He had to move._

_He tried to stand, but realized with a disorienting rush of vertigo that there wasn’t any floor beneath him. He hung suspended in the inky blue-black cold. It beggared the mind. He tried to deduce what kind of space he had found himself in, but between the cold and the pressure and the dread that clawed at his insides he found that he was hardly able to think, hardly able to breathe._ Concentrate _, he told himself, screwing his eyes shut. It made little difference. The cold blackness sat behind his eyelids as well. Just as a choked sob began to rise in his throat, he thought that he heard something._

_His head whipped around, searching for the source of the noise. Vertigo took him again, making his head spin and his limbs flail. He stopped moving, tucking his limbs inward, curling in on himself. He still didn’t know which way was up and which way was down, but with his knees tucked to his chest and his arms curled protectively around them he felt better prepared. He almost laughed at himself; the last time he could remember assuming this position was as a small boy._

_There – the noise came again. It sounded like a low hiss, a breath of air, a quiet whisper that ghosted across the outside of his ear. He shivered._

_“Who’s there?” he asked, hearing the tremble in his own voice and hating himself for it. He was not a man who trembled._

_The whisper ghosted across his ear again, making him shiver. He knew on the most instinctual level that this whisper was not the whisper of a friend. He licked his lips, tightening his grip on his knees. “Who are you?” he tried again. His voice was already hoarse from the cold._

_He felt the air move around him, pressing against his neck, over his shoulders, across his back; an unwanted caress. He jerked away from the touch. Another hiss greeted his ears. He was certain that he was hearing it this time – his mind was not merely playing tricks on him. He tried to turn, hoping in vain that he might see whatever creature was here in this cold pressing blackness with him._

_Then, he heard it. The whisper changed tonal quality, forming syllables. Too soft to hear at first, but then louder, more insistent. He felt all of the hair on the back of his neck stand up._

_The blackness was calling his name._

…

“And you think it safe?” Valory asked, watching Lars jackknife his body down beneath the surface. Without wind the water was glass-like in its stillness and clear as crystal. Lars was hunting a grouper on the reef some thirty feet down, yet they could see each kick and turn easily.

“As safe as we can be in times like these. We’re far too shallow to meet with any of the creatures – especially so near to the shoals of Old Banks,” Callum replied. Another splash notified them that Arden had entered the water as well. Valory watched him swim away from _Windjammer_ with strong, sure strokes.

“We heard rumors of sea-witches in Lyre,” Ehrin pointed out.

“They attacked that navy brig in the middle of the night. That’s their way. We seldom see them out past dawn,” Callum reminded her.

Lars surfaced next to Arden. They conferred for a moment before diving again, spears in hand, to resume the hunt of the massive fish. Valory was admiring Arden’s form when Gabriel knocked a heel against his bare ankles. He shook his head. Caught staring again.

“I suppose there’s not much else we can do, the weather being as it is,” he said, hoping none but Gabriel had noticed his momentary distraction.

“It’s beastly out,” Callum agreed. “Always is when the wind isn’t blowing.”

Valory glanced up. The mainsail still hung limply between boom and gaff. They had kept it raised solely for the shade it provided. Most of the men were stripped to the waist and barefoot save Valory, who had removed his vest and boots but elected to keep the shirt as protection from the sun. Ehrin had fashioned a fan out of canvas and a handful of spoons. She wore her sun-streaked, dark hair piled high atop her head in an attempt to stay cool, but sweat still dripped down the back of her neck.

Lars surfaced with a loud whoop. Arden followed, taking in a large gasp of air. Lars had managed to spear the huge grouper right through the gills, and began wrestling it towards the boat. Arden hadn’t had quite as much luck, but that didn’t seem to bother him; he helped Lars climb aboard with his prize. Callum moved down the quarterdeck steps to help them drop the fish in the barrel that was waiting near the companionway, and then headed below. Arden and Lars wiped their spears clean while chatting happily about their catch. Lars’ eyes wandered back towards the stern. Realizing that Ehrin was on deck, he started guiltily and tried to duck behind the mast. After all, wet leggings left little to the imagination.

“Your pardon, Ehrin,” he said, poking his head out from behind a deck box. Arden shrugged, not bothering himself overmuch with the idea of modesty.

“Look at you Lars, blushing like a virgin,” Ehrin laughed. “Please – you haven’t got anything I’ve not seen before.”

“Come on son of Oreler,” Arden goaded, elbowing him in the side before stepping up onto the caprail, “let’s find our next quarry.”

He dove in head first, followed immediately by Lars who seemed all too glad to get off the deck. They swam off, heading to the crest of the reef. Valory glanced back at Ehrin, who appeared amused by the whole scene.

“You have a different perspective on propriety than most of the women I’ve met,” he admitted.

Ehrin shrugged. “I imagine that any noblewoman who had the opportunity to crew a schooner would sing the same tune as I in short order. Privacy is an alien concept in quarters this close.”

“How long have you lived aboard _Windjammer_?”

“Since Ma died. I was eight, so – seventeen years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, and besides, I can’t say I regret the turn my life has taken. I guess that’s a cruel thing to say, but it’s the truth. Had Ma lived, I’d have been a seamstress on Kilcoran with a brood of my own to clothe and feed.”

“You don’t regret that?”

“Not a bit.”

“Because you love the sea?” Valory supplied.

Ehrin seemed to weigh his motives for inquiry before replying. “I do, but that’s not the heart of it. Being on _Windjammer_ lets me see more of the world than I could have otherwise. It’s one of the only lives I could have led that wouldn’t see me married just for the sake of keeping a roof over my head.”

“You like the freedom,” Valory observed.

“We’re all beholden to someone.”

“Yet as Callum’s only child – and the one most likely to inherit the vessel from him – you have the freedom to choose to whom you are beholden.”

Ehrin smiled slowly, dark eyes twinkling. “That’s something, isn’t it? So you see, I miss Ma, but I also know how very lucky I am.”

“I would have thought it difficult to be a woman in this industry,” Valory admitted.

“It can be,” Ehrin allowed. “Living shipboard is the easy part. There are different expectations for behavior on land. It frustrates me to need an escort, even on the simplest of errands. Especially on the mainland.”

“I had noticed that it’s easier for you in the isles,” Valory said.

“That’s always been the case. Really though, I worry the most for the future, when Da gives up his captaincy.”

“You don’t want it?” he asked.

“I know better than to want it. _Windjammer_ survives on her patrons. Finding patrons to sail under a woman’s flag would be impossible. I’m a full share deckhand, but Da introduces me as a cook and a nurse. There’s a reason for that.”

“So you worry over who will captain the _Windjammer_ in the future. Moreover, you will have to choose that captain: the man to whom you will be beholden,” he said.

“It’s more terrifying than the prospect of choosing a husband,” Ehrin answered glumly. “If I choose poorly, I’m forfeiting life and livelihood.”

“Jonah?” Valory suggested. Ehrin laughed. “Alright, I see your point – your father hasn’t promoted him for a reason. Lars? He’s made bo’sun.”

“He can barely use a traverse board,” Ehrin sighed. “Niko’s a capable sailor, but relatively green. For a long time I had hoped that Jack would take over. It seemed the logical choice.” They both looked off towards where the First Officer swam, treading water and readying himself for another dive.

“And then I let slip his name,” Valory said.

“I reckon Arden bar Miran would have left _Windjammer_ long before becoming Captain. At least I’m prepared for that now,” she replied.

“I see your quandary, but perhaps you might find a good candidate when you seek Arden’s replacement.”

Ehrin sighed again. “I certainly hope so, else I’ll have to start hunting for a husband – pitiful business _that_ would be, at my age.”

“You hardly look an old maid.”

“No? Maybe not. But as the years pass I doubt the sun will be kind to me. I must find a quality captain, because it’s doubtful that a woman of twenty-five with a past as dubious as mine would snag a quality husband.”

“I hope you are fortunate enough to find both,” Valory said as Lars surfaced, triumphant again, displaying an enormous bar jack with pride.

Ehrin turned back to Valory, a wistful smile on her face. “Thank you for your kind words, sir. I hope so too. In the meantime, though, I plan on enjoying what I’ve got – and right now that’s two big fish to clean and cook. I’ll be starting dinner shortly, if I have your leave.” She turned to Gabriel. “Gabe my quiet friend – I’ll see you on watch.”

She left them standing at the rail, moving down to help Lars hoist himself back on board. Arden followed, volunteering to dump the barrel and transport the fish down to the galley where Ehrin would gut them for the night’s meal.

“How was the fishing, gentlemen?” Valory called.

“Lars put me to shame as usual,” Arden said, smiling up at the Prince while shaking the water out of his hair. He set about grabbing the grouper out of the barrel before dumping the water overboard. Valory drank in the sight of the man – the play of muscles in the broad back as he hefted up the barrel, the freckles dotted across his shoulders, the dusting of hair over his chest and down to his navel where it formed a line and –

Gabriel elbowed him sharply in the ribs. He started, looking away guiltily. The expression on Gabe’s face was laughable. “You really need to focus your thoughts on something else – if not for your sake, then for mine,” Gabe muttered, shaking his head as though to rid it of a particularly disturbing image.

“Apologies,” Valory murmured as Lars sprung up the quarterdeck steps.

“I hope you like fish, sir. That bar jack will feed us for two days at least,” he grinned, pulling his dripping blonde hair back into a messy queue.

“It seems that you’re a capable fisherman,” Valory nodded.

“Of course I am – I’m Sarian,” he said, puffing out his chest.

“What’s it like?” Gabe asked.

“Being blessed by Oreler, you mean?” Lars clarified.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Gabe demurred.

“I don’t understand all of this pussyfooting Illen’s children do over enchantments. We Sarians talk of our trades openly – asking another about his hunt is hardly considered rude.”

Gabe smiled. “Fair enough. How is it, then? How do you fish so well?”

Lars shrugged, boosting himself up to sit on top of the deck box that housed the steering gear. “I can feel the fish in the water, and I could tell you whether they’re going to turn this way or that before they even make a move. They’re not frightened of me either, although they tend to avoid me when they see a spear in my hand.”

“So you just . . . know?”

“In a way. I feel the echo of the movement they want to make in my own muscles and bones,” Lars replied.

“That’s amazing,” Gabe murmured.

“Nah. You can read minds. _That’s_ amazing.”

“In a way we’re not so different. I know the minds of men, you know the minds of animals,” Gabe pointed out.

“Just fish.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Oh yeh. I’m hopeless with birds. To tell the truth my gift isn’t all that strong, either. Some fishermen can make the sea bass leap into their nets. And I don’t really talk to the fish, but I met a man once who could talk to his horse. Then there’s that woman on Halen whose singing can make flowers bloom. Such strength is more common on the mainland, though.”

“I still think it incredible that a man might charm a wild drake into a saddle, or one of his cows into the slaughter house,” Gabe said.

“It’s got naught to do with charms,” Lars said, gruffly. “Our Blessing lets us communicate with other creatures, no more. Why does a Sarian cow not bellow and rebel? Because the Sarian rancher knows how to give the cow some dignity and peace in his last moments, and how to deliver a quick and painless end. That’s something we learned from the cows themselves two millennia ago.”

“ _A man may happily choose to serve you, but only when you treat him as a man deserves – and so it is with all creatures in Oreler’s dominion_ ,” Valory said softly. “ _Every one in its place._ ”

Lars gaped at the Prince. “You’ve read the Book of Oreler?”

“Arden had me do so weeks ago,” Valory admitted. “I found a great deal of wisdom in the Sarian mindset.”

“Jack’s read the Book of Oreler?” Lars asked incredulously.

“I believe he has it memorized. He’s a man with an impressive intellect, as well he should be. I’m not sure what you know of Oceanic politics, but your First Mate is fifth in line for the throne.”

“Damn,” Lars muttered. “Well it’s good to know that the Book of Oreler is in the Ship’s Library along with all of the other fancy books he’s got in there. You’d think he’d be a better fisherman for it, though.”

Valory fought a smile. “The right mindset does not necessarily a talent make.”

“So your skill with all living things comes down to simple understanding, then?” Gabe asked.

“More or less,” Lars nodded. “I understand the way a fish moves in the water, but there are some men who understand what every fish says with each flick of fin and tail – and there are still others who may speak with the fish and call it into a net.”

“And the same goes with all creatures, though the fisherman may not be able to speak so plainly with a horse?”

“Exactly. Some are more blessed than others, and each has his own strength – or none at all. Not unlike Illen’s Blessing, I’m led to believe.”

“Such is the nature of Blessings,” Valory nodded.

“What’s yours like, telepath?” Lars was eager to know. Telepaths were rare, and most avoided speaking about their abilities.

“Technically I’m an Empath,” Gabriel corrected. “Telepathy grows from a particularly strong Empathetic enchantment. I am but a minor telepath; I can occasionally hear the thoughts that others leave unguarded. It’s as though I am always overhearing snippets of conversations in a crowded room. Usually I get impressions of ideas, mental pictures—” he cast a sidelong glance at Valory, “though if someone is concentrating with particular focus, I can hear their thoughts word-for-word.”

“That’s uncanny.”

Gabe shrugged. “You’re wondering what a strong telepath could do if I am but a minor one.” He grinned. “Yes, I heard that. Well, the Master Empath on Ithaka can read thoughts that you have not yet put words to, whether you want him to or not. More than that, he can mind-speak.”

“You mean, talk without _talking_?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve heard tell that sea-witches have such powers of mind-speak, and can lure sailors to their deaths that way,” Lars said.

“Perhaps, though none have ever spoken to me. They were Ranael’s children once. He blessed them long ago, but they betrayed him during the rise of Zathár.”

“Small wonder Ranael did not give any others his Blessing when he departed,” Valory said.

“He would not have his Gift tarnished twice, and I can’t say I blame him. You’re right though, Lars. Sea-witches can command powerful magic. It is small wonder they hunt at night; the Master Empath has told me that it takes incredible strength to mind-speak to a waking man.”

“So they prey on men in dreams,” Lars surmised.

“Or during visions,” Gabriel nodded. “I imagine, however, that they are like us in one regard; there are probably very few who have the power to do so.”

“Small comfort,” Lars muttered.

“And surely their power is waning,” Valory added, wiping the sweat off his brow with a shirt sleeve. He grimaced. “Damn it’s hot.”

“It’s unbearable,” Lars confessed, sighing wistfully. “It’ll be cool in Halen a few weeks from now.”

“And in Armathia,” Valory added, “though it’s nothing like your north-country.”

“I visited the capital each fall as a boy – Oldred, that is. I had family up that way, scores of cousins. The leaves changed color and fell off the trees during my stay each year. It was like nothing I had ever seen.”

“Did you ever see snow?” Gabriel asked.

“No, it was always too early for that, although we could see it from afar on the tops of mountains, and travelers from the northern provinces always had news of it.”

“I should like to see snow someday, or even seasons,” Gabriel said.

“What – ‘hot, hotter, wet, and almost bearable’ aren’t season enough for you?” Valory jested.

Gabriel sighed. “Not quite, sir.”

“Here,” Valory murmured shutting his eyes, his face the very picture of fierce concentration.

Gabriel laughed, clapping his hands in delight. “That is far better than any painting sir, thank you. I could even see the snowflakes as they fell. Who were those people?”

“The woman was my mother, the little boy was my brother.”

“Siath? But he was so . . .” Gabe trailed off.

“Fat? Yes, he was a chubby child. I told him so once and he nearly gave me a black eye for my forthrightness.”

Lars chortled. “What were you doing in Saria as a babe? I don’t remember any news of Oceana’s royal family paying us a visit.”

“It was decades ago, before my father was King. Anaphe had been reconquered mere years earlier, and our border was overrun by Dramor’s effort to wrestle it back. My father knew that he would become King soon, knew it was his last opportunity to make for Oldred in person. He was trying for an official alliance between Oceana and Saria, but it was not to be.”

“Wait, how long ago did you say this was?”

“Sixty-four years, to be exact.”

“Sixty-four years? And you _remember_ that?”

“Barely; I was three.”

“I knew the Oceanic Princes were blessed with long life, but _Ranael_ you’re older than you look,” Lars shook his head. “But why would your father leave Armathia if there was unrest at the border and an old King on the throne?”

“There were plenty of men left behind to rule in his stead, not the least of them being my great uncle Valoren, Regent to both my father and grandfather. Then there was his Steward, my grandfather’s Steward, my father’s Steward . . .”

“Oh,” Lars said, taking a moment to process that information before asking, “Why was your great uncle Regent to your father?”

“The Regent doesn’t lose his title when the crown changes hands. It’s the title given to the second-in-line for the throne, but only if that man is fated to be passed over by the laws of succession.”

“So then, why not your father’s brother?” Lars asked.

“First, because my father had no brothers. Even if he had, Valoren still would have been next in line for the throne after my father.”

“So the Regency exists to keep the greatest contender for the crown busy,” Lars surmised.

“It is a position of great honor and power, but you aren’t wrong.”

“And you are the Regent now,” Lars said.

“No – not yet. I am not second in line for the crown. My brother is, but he is the Crown Prince and rightful heir.”

“So you will become Regent when he is crowned,” Lars completed.

“Precisely.”

“So who is Regent now?”

“There isn’t one,” Valory replied. “Valoren died nigh on sixteen years ago.”

“And no one was made Regent in his place?”

“No, for there are no more contenders to the crown who do not also lie within the proper chain of succession. The King may do without a Regent if he must, though the role usually does not lie vacant for long.”

“Is it the same with the Stewards?”

“The House of Stewards is an entirely different family; and no, there is always a High Steward. He is the chief adviser to the King.”

“Why have a Steward at all?” Lars wondered. “We don’t have anything like that in Saria. I’ve been asking the lads, but they don’t know, either. They say it’s just the way it is.”

“That’s the heart of it,” Valory admitted. “Eramen made a position for Drand, and his heirs followed suit. The Stewards are pivotal, however, make no mistake: they cull the power of the King.”

“Make him see wisdom, you mean,” Lars said.

“That is their role, yes.”

“And the Regent has a Steward as well.”

“Ideally yes, if circumstances permit.”

Lars stared at him for a moment, jaw working. “Oceanic politics are something else, eh?”

“Believe me, I know,” Valory sighed. “For what it’s worth, most of your ruling houses agree with you.”

“You’ve spent much time in my country, then,” Lars surmised.

“Yes, though not in Oldred.”

“Why not?”

“No need. King Thun made it abundantly clear what he thought of the treaty my father proposed. He didn’t want Saria called to war when Oceana was in a time of need. Dramor was pressing on Sarian borders at the time as well, and I suppose he felt that he didn’t have the resources to spare.”

“And since then? King Thun had no blessing; he has long since passed over the sea,” Lars pointed out.

“Since then Oceana has not required aid badly enough to send an envoy. Siath and I have long thought about doing so, but my father will not hear of it. I think having his plea ignored hurt his pride. Kings, though they be leaders of men, are still men themselves: possessed of all the foibles and follies that make us what we are.”

“And your brother? And yourself?”

“My brother will be a great King,” Valory said with utter conviction. “I have no wish to be one, but I hope I might be half the Regent that Valoren was.”

“Let _Ranael_ make it so,” Lars said, offering up a quick prayer to the God of the sea.

Valory moved to clasp the Sarian’s arm in thanks for the blessing. After that the men fell silent, at first each lost in his own thoughts. As the minutes ticked by, however, Lars began to speak again, pointing out various features of the coral reef below him. Here went a parrotfish, there went a tang – and so they passed the rest of the afternoon thanking the wind for being so still, and allowing them a perfect glimpse into Ranael’s domain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> If you're wondering how lowborn women who land jobs good enough to support themselves can actively choose to avoid motherhood, just remember: a good Healer can do all kinds of useful things.


	8. Chapter 8

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 2; 2421_

Valory knew something was amiss as soon as he emerged from the companionway. They weren’t due to change tack for a few hours still by his estimation, yet Callum and Arden both stood at the helm next to Jonah, whose team was on watch. Callum was looking over their starboard quarter with a spyglass while Arden stared straight up towards the spreaders, a hand shielding his eyes from the early morning sun.

“Three masts,” Niko’s voice drifted down from the top of the rig.

“Make?” Arden shouted.

“Another schooner.”

“Flag?”

“Not one of ours,” Niko replied after a moment’s hesitation.

Callum swore. “She must see us; we’ve been carrying full canvas since dawn.”

“She’s making course to intercept us,” Arden nodded as Callum collapsed the spy glass and hung it back at his hip. “What orders?”

“All hands,” Callum said.

Arden let out the call. Ehrin was the first to reach the deck. Her apron was still tied around her waist and her arms were covered up to the elbow in baking flour. Imran and Gabe emerged next, peering warily out of the fo’c’sle to ensure that they wouldn’t get clipped by the staysail boom on their way out. Little joined them on the foredeck, having relinquished his spot on the bowsprit where he had been standing watch. As they sped back towards the quarterdeck, Niko raced down the ratlines, swinging down next to the helm with practiced ease.

Lars was the last to join the crew, lowering his head slightly at Callum’s raised brow. “I was in the head sir. Sorry, sir,” he shrugged.

Callum looked around at his assembled crew; ten able hands, if he counted himself. They had pulled off some coups in battle before, but this was going to take some doing. “We’ve spotted a sail on the horizon, coming our way and closing in fast.”

Indeed, as he spoke the men could see the white spot on the horizon, no more than a few miles off. “She’s not running a flag, sir,” Niko said.

“Does that necessarily mean she isn’t one of ours?” Little put in.

“With things as they are these days, I’m not willing to make any assumptions that would put us at a disadvantage. She’s a three-masted schooner. If she were Oceanic, she could be a cargo schooner or she could be a navy scouting ship.”

“A navy ship would be running her colors in these waters,” Valory said.

“So if she isn’t navy – which is an assumption I _am_ prepared to make – why is a merchant vessel running to intercept us with full canvas?” Callum asked.

“She could be in trouble,” Little offered.

“Making that kind of time? Unlikely.”

“Do you reckon this is one of those pirate vessels?” Niko asked.

“We saw lights on the horizon two nights ago, didn’t we? This could be a straggler,” Lars put in.

“She hardly looks like she’s straggling,” Niko answered.

“She’s coming up on us quick; we’ll be within spitting distance soon,” Callum warned. “I think we ought to prepare for the worst.”

“We could fall off and run towards Kythria,” Arden suggested.

“We’d lose time during the gybe,” Lars pointed out.

“And even if we did, we’d be running on the same course as our friends out there. There’s no doubt she’s faster than _Windjammer_ ,” Callum completed.

“Then we’re going to stay on a collision course. We’re on our fastest point of sail as it is,” Arden sighed.

“She’s the give-way vessel,” Niko said.

“I wouldn’t count on an unmarked vessel nearly twice our size being quite so courteous,” Arden pointed out.

“Maybe if we knew what her intentions were,” Lars said, glancing over towards Gabriel.

“That’s not how my enchantment works.” Gabe shook his head. “We’re too far, and I don’t know them.”

“We could light up her rig,” Ehrin suggested.

“We’d have to get mighty close to pull that off,” Callum said, considering his daughter’s words.

“It hasn’t rained for nearly a week. Their ratlines will go up like a bonfire.”

“There could be fifty men crewing that vessel – or more. If we get that close, they’ll be able to throw their grapples and board us.”

“If we were going to do that, we might as well dismast them,” Valory said, speaking for the first time. “It would certainly keep their crew occupied.”

“How do you propose we do that without getting close enough to cut the lanyards?” Callum asked.

“Each shroud will be shackled to its dead eye. If I were close enough, I could unscrew the bolt that holds the shackle together,” Valory said. Arden looked over at him sharply.

Callum shook his head. “With all due respect sire, that bolt’s under a mighty amount of pressure. It’d take getting in there with a marlinspike to unscrew just one – and that schooner’s likely to have somewhere between three and five shrouds holding up her main on each side.”

“I didn’t say anything about marlinspikes,” Valory said, tugging at the chain that hung around his neck.

Callum gave Valory a long, hard look. “You think you can drop the dead eyes in time?”

“Do we have another choice?” Valory asked.

“We’ll need to do something about the ratlines as well,” Ehrin reminded them.

“If we’re to be getting close enough for Val to take apart the dead eyes, we’ll be getting close enough for me to take care of the ratlines. They’ll be so gummed up with tar it’ll be an easy thing,” Arden said.

“Alright lads, alright,” Callum said, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking another glance out at the approaching vessel. Its rig was now well visible over the horizon; they were carrying all sails. “For this to work, we’ll have to take them to windward which will be no small feat.”

“We can turn faster,” Arden said.

“Their vessel is quick. It’ll be a near thing.”

“They’ll want to round up and pass us to starboard, stealing our wind – but we’ll turn faster. They won’t be expecting us to try to head up as well; they probably think we’ll try to fall off and run towards Kilcoran,” Arden replied.

“Then let us pray that _Windjammer_ comes around quick today. When the time comes, I hope all of you are ready to sheet in like you’ve never done before. If not, we’re going to hit them head on. Mark my words, we will _not_ come out of a collision in good shape,” Callum said.

“Wait,” Lars cut in, “so we take out their windward shrouds – then what?”

“Then they’ll try to tack around to put their damaged shrouds to leeward. It’ll give us time to escape,” Arden said.

“No,” Valory shook his head. “We have to take this vessel.”

The men stared at him in shock. “There could be fifty men on that ship, sir,” Niko breathed.

“And they will surrender when we bear down on them, preventing them from changing to a starboard tack. If they surrender, they have a chance to come away with their vessel and their lives. If they do not, they will be forced to pull away from us on a port tack, and they will lose their mast,” Valory said.

“So what then, when they surrender?” Callum asked.

“We will find out who they are and why they are haunting our waters,” Valory said firmly.

Callum let out a long breath of air. He had agreed to do as much when taking the Prince’s commission; he just hadn’t imagined that it would involve a cockamamie scheme to dismast a better armed, better prepared vessel. “Alright lads, it seems we’ve got ourselves a plan. Go prepare yourselves, and keep a sharp ear out for further orders. Muster in ten.”

“Aye sir,” the men said with one voice before scattering to ready themselves for the upcoming confrontation.

Callum glanced over at Valory, who was turning to head back towards the fo’c’sle. “I hope you know what you’re doing, sire.”

Valory nodded slowly. “So do I.”

…

It was minutes before the two vessels would meet. The crew had made ready for the worst, ridding the deck of all unessential items and strapping on what protection they owned. Arden laced up his leather vest quickly as he made for the quarterdeck. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He glanced up to see Valory already standing next to the helm, a quiver slung over his leather breastplate. Arden nearly froze when he saw the sigil stamped over the Prince’s chest in intricate swirls of white and gold. Sunrise over sea, framed by the crescent moon of the Regency. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a member of the royal family outfitted for battle. Anticipation and pride thrummed in his veins. Valory was making no attempt to hide his identity.

“You had better grab your bow. I’m going to start from the foredeck. We’re going to need all of the time we can get,” Valory said, slinging his own longbow over one shoulder.

Across the deck _Windjammer_ ’s crew were all taking their positions. Arden grabbed his bow and quiver, nodding at Callum before following the Prince forward. He crouched next to the fo’c’sle, ready to sheet in the staysail at Callum’s command. Valory positioned himself behind the pin rail, peering out toward the schooner.

“What does it look like?” Arden asked as they approached.

“The angle’s difficult; all I can see is their foredeck,” Valory said. “It looks to me as though they’re in uniform.”

“Uniform? Then they’re one of ours?”

“I’m not looking at Oceanic livery,” he answered.

“Then who the hell are they?” Arden asked.

The two schooners continued to converge at an oblique angle, bows pointed inward on a collision course. As they neared, the other vessel began to run up signal flags.

“What are they saying?” Valory asked.

“They’re asking us to pass to leeward,” Arden answered.

“Run up the flags!” Callum shouted from the helm. Lars quickly clipped the appropriate flags to one another before hoisting them up the flag halyard.

As far as the enemy schooner knew, they had just agreed with the request. As soon as they ran the flags up, the other schooner began to turn. Arden whipped the lock off of the staysail sheet cleat and braced himself. Unbeknownst to the crew, as soon as Callum gave the signal, he would help freshen the wind at the headsails to turn them faster.

“Sheet in to close-hauled, we’re going in!” Callum shouted, throwing the helm hard to starboard.

The enemy schooner was a fast vessel with a third mast that allowed them to carry far more canvas than _Windjammer_. As the smaller ship, however, _Windjammer_ was more maneuverable. Her turning circle was suited to her size, allowing her to make the near ninety degree turn in seconds. Bow crossing through the wind she made the turn just in time, passing the enemy schooner to port. Her position – along with a bit of help from Arden – allowed her to steal the wind from the other vessel’s headsails.

Valory fixed his gaze upon the enemy schooner’s mainsail shrouds, following them down to where they met the uppermost set of deadeyes. He squinted fiercely. It was a long distance, but he could just feel the threaded bolt of the first deadeye with his mind. He blocked out the shouting, the hail of arrows that had begun to rain down around them, the chaos that always broke out across both decks when ships engaged one another at sea. The threaded bolt was thick, iron, with a squared off end slightly bigger than the pad of his thumb. There was a hole in it just there, where a man could use a marlinspike to take apart the whole assembly when necessary. Valory pushed at it, willing it to turn counter-clockwise. After a moment’s pressure he felt the bolt give. It was simple after that, unscrewing the shackle from the shroud’s eye splice. He felt the bolt slip out of the shackle, and let it fall.

Arden watched, both thrilled and horrified, as first shroud snapped free under pressure. The eye splice jerked back like a coiled spring, mercilessly cutting down two enemy sailors as it whipped across the deck. Screams rang out as more enemy sailors rushed forward, looking to grapple onto _Windjammer_ as she pulled up. One sailor’s grapple fell true, hooking onto _Windjammer_ ’s standing rig. Arden let an arrow fly, felling the sailor with a single shot. The line was dragged overboard before it could be recovered by any of his fellows.

Valory hadn’t been idle during that time. As Arden nocked another arrow, scanning for a target, he saw the second shroud give way. Valory was panting; even a simple exercise of his enchantment was strenuous over such a distance. “There are two left; I have to start moving back,” he said as _Windjammer_ ’s bow drew level with the beam of the enemy schooner.

“I’m covering you, let’s go,” Arden replied. He surveyed the other deck as they began to scramble aft. _Windjammer_ ’s crew was gravely outnumbered. If they couldn’t get the mainsail shrouds to fail, they stood no chance at all. He chanced a look back toward the helm of the other schooner. The officers stood there, wearing well-cut coats to signify their station. They were navy – but not Oceanic navy.

“Westernese,” Valory said, crouching behind a davit, hand on the hilt of his broadsword as more and more grapples began to find their marks. The Westernese captain had quickly noticed the coincidental failure of two of his port mainsail shrouds. A handful of sailors had been sent to recover them, and still more were cranking down on the lanyards of the two shrouds remaining, urging them to take up more tension.

“Gods,” Arden whispered, looking away as another shroud was loosed with a sickening crack. When he looked back, the Westernese who had been at work tightening the lanyards were sprawled across the deck, all motionless save one who writhed, screaming in pain.

“One more,” Valory grunted, moving aft again.

Arden drew his cutlass. “We’re being boarded,” he said. “They’re trying to tie onto us.”

The Westernese had begun swinging onto _Windjammer_ ’s deck. Imran and Little were the first to greet them. Little’s spinning staff prevented two of the Westernese from making it all the way onto their vessel, knocking them down into the churning waters between the passing schooners. Imran’s blades beat the enemy sailors back from where Valory crouched, clutching the caprail in white-knuckled concentration. Ehrin was crawling down the leeward side of the deck, cutting grapples off their side with her rig knife while holding a cast iron skillet in front of her like a shield. Despite the efforts of the Westernese, _Windjammer_ was still pulling away.

They were very nearly overrun. _Windjammer_ ’s crew was outnumbered at least two-to-one, but they had the advantage of fighting on their own deck. _Not only that_ , Arden thought, watching as Gabe danced across the midships housetop, wielding his broadsword with deadly force. They also had some of the best trained fighters in all of Oceana on their side.

“Hurry up, Gods dammit!” Callum shouted from the helm, ducking as another handful of arrows passed overhead.

Yet another Westernese made the jump between the two vessels, landing between Arden and Valory. He lashed out towards the Prince with little success; Arden intercepted the blow with his cutlass before striking with his rig knife. The blade bit deep into the Westernese sailor’s shoulder. For a brief moment he and Arden stared one another in the eye. Arden’s instincts soon took over. He lifted his cutlass and finished the job, running the sailor through and pushing his body overboard.

“Come on, Val,” he urged, turning in time to watch Imran cut down another Westernese sailor.

“I’ve almost got it,” Valory said. “Are you ready to light up their rig? We’re starting to pass them.”

He was right; they were nearly level with the other schooner’s quarterdeck. Arden had never attempted to set fire to anything so far away before. He was loath to sheathe his cutlass in the middle of the mayhem that spread across their decks, but knew he would have to use an arrow to spark the ratlines if they got much further.

As if on cue Valory dropped the last bolt of the windward shrouds and pushed himself up and away from the caprail, drawing his broadsword in preparation to join the fray that covered _Windjammer_ ’s deck. In that moment, a number of things happened. Arden looked up in time to watch the last shroud snap, taking a few more unsuspecting sailors with it. They were passing very close to the quarterdeck of the other vessel; he could hear their captain shouting orders in Westernese. He looked up to focus on what remained of the standing rig and met the eyes of a Westernese officer, arrow nocked, sight trained firmly on Valory’s back. At this distance, light armor or no, an arrow would be fatal.

Arden’s reaction was instinctive. He turned, dropping his cutlass, and tackled Valory to the deck without so much as a shouted warning. Valory twisted as he fell, landing on his back and smacking his head soundly on the quarterdeck steps. He groaned, dazed. Arden whipped his head around again, trying to find both the archer and a good line of sight of the schooner’s standing rig. Although chaos reigned across both decks, the din seemed strangely muted to Arden – barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears. He laid his right hand flat on Valory’s breast, palm pressed to the sigil on his armor as he pushed himself up to a seated position.

Vision swimming with rage, terror, relief, and a hundred other nameless thoughts and feelings, Arden caught sight of the enemy officer, calmly nocking another arrow as though to finish the job. Arden was nearly out of options. Without time to think, he reared back and threw his rig knife as hard as he could, not moving his palm from the King’s sigil. He had only a fraction of a moment to realize that something _didn’t feel right_ before seeing a flash of light as the archer – and the entire standing rig behind him – went up in flames.

If not for how dizzy he felt immediately afterward, he wouldn’t have known that he was responsible for the fire. He had never, ever been able to light a spark from such a distance, let alone the conflagration that raced up the port aft ratlines of the beleaguered Westernese schooner. He looked down at his hand, pressed firmly over Valory’s heart. Had he?

Valory groaned again, coming to after a moment of confusion. He pushed Arden’s hand from his chest, rolled, and retched into a scupper. Evidently, he had. Arden looked up then, only to come face-to-face with the arrow that had been meant for Valory’s back, buried deep into the side of a deck box.

“Prepare to gybe!” Callum shouted from the helm. Arden stood, looking around the deck. They had passed and pulled away from the Westernese schooner. The deck was littered with bodies in unfamiliar uniforms, but Arden didn’t see any of _Windjammer_ ’s crew among the fallen.

He did see his cutlass a few paces away which he scrambled to recover. His rig knife was gone, but not a total loss. Valory pushed himself to his knees with the aid of the caprail. Arden turned, extending an arm and pulling the Prince to his feet. They wobbled to the foresail as Callum began to fall off to port. They were going to cross the stern through the eye of the wind, then loop back around to prevent the Westernese vessel from limping away on a leeward tack.

“ _Sonofabitch_ ,” Valory swore as he stumbled onto the midships housetop and took the lock off of the line. He looked as though he was still getting his bearings. Arden began to heave on the line, taking out as much slack as he could.

“Gybe-ho!” Callum shouted from the helm. The force of the stern moving through the eye of the wind, taking the sails with it, was almost percussive. As soon as the sails were over Callum began to round up again.

“Are you alright?” Arden asked, looking at Valory across the foresail traveler.

“Thanks to you, I’ll live,” Valory replied. Arden gaped. “I hit my head – that doesn’t mean I forgot everything that came before.”

“I—”

“Let ‘em out to a close reach and get to your stations, we’re coming in for another pass!” Callum shouted. Valory locked off his side of the sheet and pushed himself backward off the housetop, running up the windward side to join Callum at the helm.

Arden finished letting out the sail before locking it off and making for the quarterdeck. “How are they looking, Cap?” he asked.

“See for yourself. The fire ripped apart the ratlines on their port quarter, but they managed to put it out before it spread. They’ve headed up and are trying to drop the main, but it looks to me as though they’re going to keep their headsails up and put the damage to leeward.”

“And we’re not going to let them,” Valory said. “I think it’s time to run up the flags.”

Lars was ready at the flag halyard. As soon as Callum gave the sign he pulled up their next message to the Westernese schooner: _Surrender or no quarter_. _Windjammer_ ’s intentions were now explicit: if the Westernese captain did not give up his ship, they would force him to run his vessel on a port tack until he lost his mast.

“How many of them were there, do you reckon?” Arden asked.

“Our estimate of fifty seemed about right. We’ve got the bodies of sixteen of them on deck right now, though I’d say another ten perished in their attempt to board,” Callum said. “If I had known your men could fight like that, I would have been less worried.”

“They can at that. So twenty-five left, more or less,” Valory said, speculatively.

“Not at all,” Arden murmured. “You didn’t see the havoc those shrouds caused. I’d say you offed a number of them yourself.”

“Not to mention the fire. I’d be surprised if there were as many as fifteen left,” Callum said.

“So much for giving quarter,” Valory sighed.

“If they have the gall to send their navy men into our waters, I daresay they’ve gotten no more than they were asking for,” Callum replied.

“There it is,” Arden breathed. The Westernese vessel had run up the white flag and begun dropping its headsails.

“Alright lads, bring her around and prepare to heave-to,” Callum announced. More quietly, he added, “I’m not one to count my chickens, but . . . I still can’t believe that worked.”

“You have a good crew on your hands. I had faith.”

“Fair enough. How’s the head? I saw you take a mighty thump,” Callum said.

“Better than it would have been had Arden not full-body tackled me to the deck. What of the others?”

“Nothing serious – an arrow creased Little’s leg, and Ehrin has a gash on one arm,” Callum reported.

“What happened?” Arden asked.

“Oh, you didn’t see the knife fight she had with that Westernese officer on the foredeck? Jack you don’t know what you missed. My little girl whipped him,” Callum beamed. “That said, why don’t you lads drop the main? In this wind the jib alone won’t back the rest of the sails, and we don’t want _Windjammer_ tacking herself.”

They hastened to carry out Callum’s orders and stop the vessel’s forward motion through the water. Once _Windjammer_ was still, Valory called Arden, Imran, Lars, Niko, Jonah, and Gabe over to get into the launch with him. They rowed the short distance to the beam of the other vessel. This time around they had the leisure to inspect the ship, noting that she was called the _Madesta_. They were welcomed aboard in silence, a handful of sailors standing around before the mast, staring at them sullenly.

They mounted the quarterdeck steps to find the Captain of the _Madesta_ waiting next to the helm, an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. He wore a high-collared uniform jacket dyed deep red. His dark hair was shorn short in Westernese fashion; pale skin and dark eyes betrayed the influence of Dramorian blood in upper echelons of Western society. He had high, sharp cheekbones and a severe set to his mouth that seemed only to add to the character of his face.

Valory spoke first, choosing the most common Westernese dialect to make his address. _“I am Valory, son of King Adrianth of Oceana. Your vessel is now under my command. Introduce yourself.”_

The Captain’s face froze in shock, either not expecting to meet with a personage of such importance or not expecting that man to speak his language. Slowly he pulled his sword from its sheath, dropping it onto the deck at Valory’s feet along with two daggers. _“I am Commodore Félix son of Laszlo, Captain of the Madesta, servant of the state of Belen and the Lord of the desert.”_

 _“What is a man with such loyalties doing in these parts, on a ship outfitted for war?”_ Valory asked. His reply was met with stony silence. _“If you are a Commodore, where is the rest of your fleet?”_ Again, silence. _“Are you here on the orders of your own state, or are you cowing to Dramor’s demands?”_

“He’s not going to talk, my Lord,” Arden murmured.

 _“Your pet is correct, Prince Valory,”_ the Commodore said.

 _“You speak Oceanic. That’s rare for your people, I’m lead to believe,”_ Valory replied, ignoring the jibe he had thrown towards Arden.

 _“Yet he assumes that his own language is enigmatic,”_ Arden added, not quite as willing to ignore the insult. Surprise flitted across the Commodore’s features yet again before he schooled them to neutrality.

 _“Might I introduce Lord Arden, son of the High Steward?”_ Valory offered.

“Enchanted,” Félix said, heavy accent failing to hide his sarcasm.

 _“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, perhaps you might see fit to give me the information I seek,”_ Valory continued. _“Your orders, if you please.”_ The Commodore’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had no intention of cooperating. Changing tacks, Valory asked, _“How many officers have you on this ship, Captain?”_

 _“Three remain, myself included,”_ the man replied, sparing a look of pure venom for Arden. Arden nodded once, accepting the scorn. Félix would have seen him throw the dagger from his position at the helm.

_“And of ordinary seamen?”_

_“Eleven; four wounded.”_

_“We will transport the officers and the wounded to Windjammer forthright.”_

_“Our surgeon was killed in battle,”_ Commodore Félix said stiffly.

_“Ours will tend to their needs. You may order your able-bodied men to see to the burials of the dead. My men will look over your vessel, make any necessary repairs, and then we will make for Kalma.”_

_“You will sell the Madesta off as a prize,”_ the Commodore stated.

_“Yes. Arden, if you will see the Commodore and his officers to the launch?”_

At his words, Arden gestured for the Commodore to begin the walk down to midships. With a stiff bow in Valory’s direction, the Commodore turned on a heel and stalked off, head held high. Arden followed with his hand on the guard of his cutlass. After long years at sea, he had learned not to put faith in another vessel’s surrender.

As Arden ordered the _Madesta_ ’s three officers into the launch, Valory turned back towards his men.  “Strip all of the weapons from this vessel. They have seven hands well enough to crew it, but that’s enough for a mutiny if you’re not on your guard. Lars, Callum seems to think that you are capable enough to captain your first prize. I trust you agree with him?”

“Yes sir,” Lars said. “Kythria’s not so very far away, but . . .” he trailed off, uncertainly.

“I’m told that Jonah has a head for navigation. He will be staying on as your First Officer for the duration of the trip.”

“Alright then,” Lars said. He and Jonah exchanged thrilled grins.

“Take stock of all of the repairs that need to be made. The shrouds shouldn’t have been damaged in the fire – you’ll only need to find the bolts to fasten them to their respective deadeyes once more. If you need any parts, send a few men over in your own launch. In the event that there is significant damage to the standing rig, let us know and we’ll see what we can do to help.”

“And we’ll meet up in Kalma?” Jonah asked.

“Yes, though we’re not to make way until after I’ve interrogated the officers.”

“Do you want me to come with you, sir?” Gabe asked.

“Later. For now they’ll need you here to flesh out our presence on the _Madesta_. Find out what you can of their orders. I’ll send for you when we begin the interrogation of the Commodore.”

“I don’t know what I’ll be able to glean,” Gabe admitted, “the Commodore is a hard man. His thoughts were willfully blank when you were speaking to him just now.”

“Hopefully he will see the wisdom in cooperating once we return to _Windjammer_. Imran, you’ll be staying on the _Madesta_ as well; I imagine you are the only one who can understand them.”

“I speak enough of the Belen dialect to translate. With a Belenese Commodore, I think the deckhands must all know it,” Imran said.

“Good. Niko, you’re to return to _Windjammer_ with me.”

“Yes sir,” Niko said, turning to help Arden make the launch ready.

“May the wind be at your back, gentlemen. We’ll speak more later.”

“And yours as well, sir,” Lars replied, clasping Valory’s arm.

As Valory headed back towards the launch, he heard Lars and Imran addressing the remaining crewmembers. Arden and the Westernese officers had just finished lowering the last of the wounded into the boat. Valory tossed their stern line into the launch before lowering himself down as well. As he moved to crouch in the bow, the rest of the able-bodied took their places.

The two surviving Westernese officers seemed to be struggling for their composure, keeping their eyes trained on the oars. The wounded lay mostly silent at their feet, though Valory could see that one man was shaking silently with the effort it took him not to cry out. The Commodore sat on the port side of the craft, head held high and proud. His eyes roved over _Windjammer_ as they approached, examining it with leisure for the first time. His bewilderment was plain – how had such a vessel overwhelmed the _Madesta_ and killed more than half of his men?

As they pulled up alongside _Windjammer_ , Valory said, _“Commodore, while I appreciate the fervor with which you guard your mission, I must advise you that it is within your best interests to cooperate. I have no patience for the violence that has befallen Oceana’s borders, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to find out what I need to know.”_

Their eyes met. The Commodore’s lips twitched into a contemptuous snarl before the look of blank indifference recaptured his features.

 _“Alright, everyone up,”_ Arden said, cutting off any further conversation.

The officers stood, helping their wounded comrades over _Windjammer_ ’s gunwales. They boarded next, coming to stand at attention alongside the pin rail. Niko, Valory, and Arden boarded last. Arden looked around the deck. Callum, Little, and Ehrin had been busy; all of the corpses were stacked, ready to be transported back over to the _Madesta_.

Niko, Ehrin, and Little wasted no time carrying the injured men down into the salon. As they worked, one man at a time, Callum addressed the three officers. Knowing that Valory would translate for him, he said,

“I am Callum bar Samuel di Oceana, Captain of this fine vessel we stand upon. A word of mutiny from any of you and I’ll throw you to the locker without so much as a second glance.” He turned to Valory and continued, “We don’t usually have much to do with the transport of prisoners, but Little rigged a space in the midships hold for the lot of them. We were expecting more, to be honest.”

“Their cockiness did them no favors,” Valory said, shooting a pointed look at Félix. “Since Ehrin is about to turn the salon into a hospital ward, I was thinking we might have our chat on deck.”

Finished with the wounded, Little and Niko returned to the deck. Little bound the officers’ hands behind their back and led them down the midships companionway. A moment later Ehrin returned on deck looking somewhat harried, two mugs of grog in each hand. “That’s all I can do for now, father. Some of the men are badly wounded,” she said, passing the first mug to Valory. “I’ll need help from Niko and Little as well.”

“They’ll be with you as soon as they’re finished with the Westernese officers,” Callum promised, taking his own mug from her.

 _“You have women aboard Oceanic vessels?”_ the Commodore asked, eyeing up Callum’s daughter.

 _“It is uncommon, but she has earned her spot as well as the rest of them,”_ Valory replied.

_“It would seem so. She is the one who killed my First Officer.”_

Ehrin handed the final two mugs to Arden and Félix. Callum had insisted on a fourth mug; he was no stranger to taking prizes, and knew the etiquette well. Westernese or no, it was only right to treat the other Captain with the respect due his station. It seemed, however, that the Commodore did not have similar ideas. He met the eyes of the woman who had taken the life of his friend and right-hand man and recoiled, knocking the mug to the deck.

“Too proud to parch his own thirst,” Ehrin sneered, moving to pick up the mug. As she stepped forward, the Commodore spat on her. Ehrin flinched in shock, color rising rapidly in her cheeks.

“Ehrin,” Callum said, reaching forward to stop her. It was too late. She balled up her shaking fist and hit the Commodore soundly in the jaw. His head snapped sideways and he nearly toppled down to the deck. He let out a curse in Westernese, face betraying his surprise at being so soundly clocked by the pretty little woman who stood before him.

“Bastard,” she spat, stalking back towards the salon.

“What in Fángon’s name was that?” Little asked, having emerged from the companionway just in time to see Ehrin launch herself at the Commodore.

“It’s unimportant. Go to the salon, Ehrin needs your help,” Valory said before turning back to Félix. _“Well done, Commodore – you just spat on the woman who is meant to save the lives of your wounded sailors.”_

 _“Death take all of you,_ ” Félix swore.

Valory sighed, looking back and forth between Callum and Arden’s horrified expressions. “Something tells me he isn’t going to be very cooperative. Bring him below.”

“Yes sir,” Niko said, pulling Félix’s hands behind his back and securing them firmly with a sail tie. He roughly pushed him in the direction of the companionway.

“What now?” Arden asked.

Valory looked down at his mug, swirling the liquid in it for a few moments as he thought. “We’ll let him stew for a few hours – at least until mid-afternoon. We need to think of a strategy.”

“We?”

“I need your help,” Valory said.

“Because I speak his dialect? So do you,” Arden pointed out.

“I need your help because you’re better at getting a read on people than you think. Besides, didn’t you hear him? He declared himself a servant of the Lord of the desert. Is that what they call the sultan, then?”

“So it would seem.”

“Yet the last I had heard, Dramor’s influence amongst the Westernese didn’t compel them to service. I need your mind in there with me.”

“Alright,” Arden sighed. “But can we do our strategizing somewhere else? It’s hot as Arrar’s backside out here.”

…

“ _Those ships we saw two nights past were under your command. Stay as silent as you like – we saw their lights. The Madesta was following their course. Where were they headed?_ ” Valory asked, fighting hard against the weariness he felt. He had been repeating himself for hours in hopes of tiring the Westernese Commodore. Félix, however, seemed to no longer be paying any attention to his surroundings. His face was blank, his gaze focused somewhere behind Valory’s head.

“Prince Valory is a patient man, but I wouldn’t try that patience any further,” Little warned from his place next to the Commodore. Félix didn’t react. His manacled hands hung loose at his sides. He sat perfectly upright in the rickety chair they had brought for him.

“ _Your officers were plain when pressed, Commodore. You are not sailing in Oceanic waters for peaceful purposes. Your fleet has already burned at least one Oceanic vessel to the waterline. Your orders, whatever they are, are ones meant to do harm to my people. You will tell them to me_ ,” Valory threatened. Félix remained silent.

“What’s it going to be, short-hair? The easy way, or the hard way?” Little asked. Silence reigned in the hold once again.

“That’s enough,” Valory said, standing up and heading for the door. “Make him ready, Little.”

He strode out of the cabin, Arden on his heels. The door had barely shut behind him before Arden said, “What do you mean, make him ready?”

Valory glanced over his shoulder, shaking his head. He continued onward up the ladder, through the companionway, and onto the deck. “You know exactly what I meant. He’s left us no choice.”

“You can’t possibly,” Arden insisted. “You wouldn’t.”

“What do you propose we do? Gabe spent an hour in there while we questioned him and got _nothing_ – not even a shadow of a thought. You and I have put in more hours on top of that. We’ve tried every question, every idea, every tactic we could think of.”

“We just need more time,” Arden said.

“I’m not so sure we have the time to waste.”

“Waste? You think that treating a captive honorably is a _waste_?” Arden demanded, shocked by Valory’s blithe dismissal of his concerns.

“We know the _Madesta_ had a destination somewhere within Oceana – the officers had that straight, at least. They were sailing as part of a flotilla, but were waylaid by action three nights past, just before we saw the other ships in their fleet. They burned one of our vessels to the waterline, Arden – forgive me for not wanting to offer gentle hospitality to the man in return.”

“We aren’t like them. We don’t torture our captives,” Arden bit out.

Valory let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t we? This will not be the first time I have acted as an instrument of torture in Oceana’s name, nor will it be the last. We are at war.”

“If you lay a hand on that man, you’re no better than a damn Dramorian,” Arden growled.

“We are out of options,” Valory argued.

“There are always options – you’re just unwilling to consider them,” Arden shot back.

“Oh? And will those options have an answer for us before dawn breaks tomorrow, when we are forced to decide upon a course?”

“What, a man’s life is not worth the inconvenience of wasted time, simply because he’s Westernese?” Arden spat.

Valory swallowed an angry reply. Whether or not the man realized it, Arden was giving him counsel – brave counsel, considering how fiercely he was willing to argue for it. Valory bit back a grimace. Arden would have made a fantastic Steward. He shook his head. Now was not the time to have those thoughts.

“Belenese, Dramorian, Sarian – it doesn’t matter _what_ he is. I have to do this because of _who_ he is. If the information we have gathered thus far is any indication, the Commodore’s confession can save lives.”

“The board is about expediency and ease, isn’t it? But what does it matter if that confession comes now, or tomorrow, or the day after once he’s seen the wisdom in cooperation?” Arden pled.

“What if they’re looking to make war on one of our ports, rather than just harassing our shipping lanes?”

Arden scrubbed his hands down his face. If that was Valory’s suspicion, he had a point. “Another day, even, and we could have him. He must be exhausted.”

“And what if a day makes the difference?” Valory asked. “The fleet must be less than a fortnight away from making landfall in the isles. What if I fail to defend my people because I refused to properly interrogate an enemy Commodore?”

“That’s a generous euphemism.”

“I know that, Arden. _Gods_. Do you think I enjoy putting a man on the board and watching him suffer?” Valory asked, pained. “I’ll ever hold myself accountable for the things I’ve done in name of King and country, but I’d be unable to live with myself if we lost a port to the Westernese because I deemed my soul’s purity more valuable than the lives of my subjects.”

“It’s not about purity, I–” Arden sighed, frustrated. “I’ve seen men who have been to the board. The last time I visited Ithaka, there was a soldier in care of the Master Empath. He panicked if a single drop of rain touched his face.”

“I’ve seen many a victim of torture in my time as well. I have also seen what happens when an entire town is stormed and razed. I have seen . . .” he trailed off, images of Lannoch springing to the forefront of his mind. “Maybe I am a callous man for calling this the lesser of two evils. I don’t know. I only hope that you do not think me a monster for resorting to this.”

Arden’s face fell. “Alright,” he said slowly, feeling immediately guilty for his harsh words, “alright. We will not agree, I can see that, but I do not think you any sort of monster.”

“What need have we of monsters when we are capable of such atrocities ourselves?”

Arden pressed his fingers to his temples, warding off his impending headache. “I understand what you are trying to tell me. You believe that someone’s life will be forfeit, and you would rather it were not one of our countrymen. I can see the case for that, even if I don’t agree with you. You are in a difficult position, my Lord.”

“I don’t think I can endure you _‘my Lord’_ -ing me right now,” he said with a joyless smile.

“Val. It was a cruel mistake on my part to think that such a decision was an easy one for you to make. It was a slight upon your character.”

“Never apologize for sharing your counsel with me.” _Steward-mine_ , he added silently. “Little will have finished by now. You are dismissed; I will find you later to debrief.”

“Dismissed?”

“I will never ask you to participate in an act you think immoral – not if I can help it.”

Arden’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “If you are forced by duty to violate what you know to be right, I cannot find it in me to take the coward’s way out. I will not make any pretenses of keeping my conscience clean while abandoning you to finish the job alone.”

“Even though you are passionately against my decision?” he asked.

“Even so.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. “I wish this age of war and madness was at an end,” Valory said, voice quiet.

“As do I,” Arden said, laying a hand on his shoulder. Valory accepted the small comfort, head bowed.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s get this over with – for all of our sakes.”

They made their way back down into the hold without further ado. When they opened the door they found that Félix had been removed from the chair in the middle of the room. Little had strapped him to the bilge cover and canted it downward so his head and torso were slightly below the rest of his body. A cloth lay over his head. Little nodded to acknowledge their arrival. Félix surely must have known what was about to happen, but said nothing; he lay still as stone.

 _“You are no fool, Commodore. You know what comes next. If you tell us what we need to know, all of this will be unnecessary,_ ” Valory said, one last attempt at avoiding the inevitable. Félix remained silent. “ _So be it. We will begin. Each time you fail to answer me, there will be more water.”_

He glanced back at Arden, who nodded – a reluctant show of support. Taking the cue for what it was, Little lifted a flagon of water and poured a splash onto the cloth that covered Félix’s face. Sodden, the cloth clung to the Commodore’s nose and mouth, making it impossible to breathe. Despite his immense self-control, Félix’s hands twitched against the restraints. Little counted in silence, face impassive. After a few moments he lifted the cloth over Félix’s mouth, allowing him to breathe once more. His first breath came out as a gasp, but he quickly regained control.

 _“Where is your fleet headed, Commodore?_ ” Valory asked, pacing in a slow circle around the room. Balling his fists, Félix remained stubbornly silent. Valory nodded at Little once more. The cloth was replaced, and more water was poured.

Arden found himself holding his breath in sympathy. The tension in the other man’s body was apparent, but they weren’t yet cutting off his air for very long. While some men gagged uncontrollably at the first application of water, the Commodore seemed unworried by the way that water ran up his nose and into his eyes. Then again, Little was not pouring very much water onto the cloth with each application. Arden realized that Valory was still waiting, trying to give the Commodore the chance to change his mind before they truly began.

After a longer interval Little removed the cloth. This time Félix panted for breath. They were reaching the limit of his ability for voluntary apnea.

 _“You know as well as I that the next one won’t be pleasant,_ ” Valory said. _“I get no joy from your suffering. Tell me what I want to know and we will end this._ ”

After a few heartbeats, it became clear that no words were forthcoming. Little repeated the procedure, though this time he added far more water. He counted down the seconds while watching the Commodore’s movements with care. Little didn’t want him to lose consciousness, but the man could only hold his breath for so long – his lungs would be burning, aching for air. He was already struggling instinctively against his bonds, little twitches of arms and legs letting his captors know that he was rapidly running out of breath.

Then it happened; his body won control over his mind and forced him to inhale hard in a desperate bid for oxygen. The wet cloth against his nose and mouth created suction, making him feel as though he was drowning. He began to thrash against his bonds, instinct drowning out all reason. After a few seconds Little lifted the cloth. Félix sucked ragged, shaky breaths as his whole frame trembled.

Arden looked back over towards Valory. The Prince’s teeth were clenched, muscles taut, face the very picture of grim determination. _“It must be very unpleasant for a lifetime sailor to feel as though he is drowning. Give me your orders and you will not have to feel it again.”_

Félix was a hard man. Despite the gasping breaths he took, chest heaving with effort, he remained silent. Valory sighed. It would be worse this time.

Little replaced the cloth and added the water. Already out of breath, it didn’t take long before the Commodore began to tense and struggle in a frantic effort to draw air into his lungs. He let out a panic-stricken, bestial noise. His logical mind may have known that they would remove the cloth before harm came to him, but the board was not a logical matter. He was convinced that he was drowning.

Valory nearly vibrated with tension. He watched Félix’s struggle unblinking, as though bearing witness to the man’s suffering was his self-inflicted penance. Arden felt guilt swirl within him once more. How could he have thought that Valory would ever turn to such methods for the sake of convenience?

Arden was an avid free diver. He had pushed himself to the brink of unconsciousness for sake of the sport on more than one occasion. Though he had experienced the distressing sensation of air deprivation many times while fighting his way to the surface, he knew he would never become accustomed to it. He couldn’t imagine how Félix felt, starving for air and immobilized as he was. Arden shivered. Little had tied the Commodore expertly, padded ropes bracing his limbs to prevent both movement and injury. The way Félix was thrashing worried him, though; he was afraid that the man would hurt himself in his violent struggle to be free. He would not be the first man to break a bone on the board if he did.

Arden knew what the scene looked like when drowning and near-drowning victims where found. They would scratch their fingers down to the bone to be free of their restraints if they truly believed they were going to die. It was no different on the board.

Arden swallowed. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to drown, no, but Valory could. Although Valory had glossed over the details in the telling of the story of his scar, Arden hadn’t been fooled. Valory knew how it felt to drown. He _had_ drowned, perhaps, only to be saved by Illen at the brink of death. Valory knew the agony of those final, painful, panicked moments before losing consciousness, and his duty to Oceana was forcing him to inflict that same torture upon another. It beggared Arden’s mind.

Little finished his count and lifted the cloth. Félix wheezed, letting out low, shaky noises with every exhalation. Valory screwed his eyes shut for a brief moment before forcing himself to look back at the Commodore. Arden shook his own head. He could feel a headache coming on, brought about from grinding his teeth so hard.

 _“Alright,_ ” Valory said, _“it seems as though he still won’t speak. Longer, this time.”_

Félix gasped again, a pained whine escaping his throat. _“No. No. No more. Please.”_

 _“Only you can stop this,_ ” Valory reminded him. _“Make ready the water.”_

 _“Kilcoran,_ ” Félix bit out. _“We were headed for Illen’s Arm.”_

 _“How many vessels?_ ” Valory asked.

_“Eleven, including Madesta.”_

_“Why?”_

_“To take the town and use it to storm Bightton.”_

_“Were any of the other vessels waylaid?”_

_“No.”_

_“When will they attack?_ ” Valory asked. Félix fell silent; he had regained control of his breathing. _“I want the day and time of the planned attack, Commodore,_ ” Valory reiterated. Félix refused to give any more information, however. His lips were pressed together in a thin line. Arden supposed he was feeling anger, or perhaps even shame, at how he had parted with so much information during a moment of weakness.

“Go, Little,” Valory sighed.

It took two more agonizing applications of cloth and water before Félix was reduced to incoherent begging once again. He pled for mercy in a mixture of the Belenese and Januzian dialects, but offered no answers to any of Valory’s questions. Arden could only barely follow the Januzian ramblings, but some of the turns of phrase seemed to suggest that this was not the first time Félix had received such treatment. He could tell from the stricken look that flitted across Valory’s features that the Prince had understood more of what was being said, and found it appalling. Arden stepped forward to lay a hand over Valory’s shoulder blade in a show of silent support. He could feel the tremor in his frame as he ordered Little to begin again.

“We have to know when, or this is all for naught,” Valory whispered.

“Yes,” Arden agreed, not knowing what else to say.

Before Little moved to replace the cloth again, the Commodore cracked. _“Dawn. We attack at dawn. We enter the harbor the night before, lights doused.”_

 _“What day?_ ” Valory demanded.

 _“No,_ ” Félix ground out.

Valory stepped forward, pulling the flagon from Little’s hands and pouring its remaining contents out over Félix’s nose and mouth. Félix gagged, gasping and spluttering. _“When,_ ” Valory ground out, voice cracking on the word.

 _“Antazsh,_ ” Félix said before being taken by a coughing fit. _“Fifteen_ ,” he completed with a wheeze some moments later.

“Antazsh?” Valory asked, turning to Arden.

“The fifteenth of Ranár. They follow the same calendar as the rest of the Eastern World, but each city state uses their own names for months,” he supplied.

“I know that, but Antazsh isn’t a Belenese word,” Valory murmured.

“No, now that you mention it: it’s Zarándrian.”

“He can’t be hoping we won’t understand – what would be the point in that?”

“Fángon knows,” Arden muttered.

“Only one way to find out for certain,” Little said, gesturing to the bound Commodore.

Valory glanced back and forth between Arden and Félix. The Commodore was stiff-lipped again, fists balled so tight that his knuckles were white. It would take the whole night – and no small amount of cruelty – to get the whole story from him.

“We have what information we need before our course is set at sunup, do we not?” Arden murmured.

Valory considered his friend’s words. They knew the date and time of the attack, as well as the number of Westernese vessels that were meant to be there. He had a feeling that there was more to it than that, but Arden wasn’t wrong: the rest could surely wait. “We do. Little – make sure he has a dry shirt before you bind his wrists again.”

“Yes sir,” Little nodded, shoulders sagging in relief.

“And see Ehrin about a grog ration for him, if she isn’t too occupied by her new charges,” Valory added. “And one for yourself, as well. You look like you need it.”

“Gods only know,” Little muttered.

“Arden – do you have another moment? I’d like to confer with you,” Valory added.

“Of course.”

They headed up to the deck together in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Arden could feel the tension in Valory’s frame. They had gotten the confession, and Valory had been right: ten hostile vessels were to attack Illen’s Arm on Kilcoran. If the other vessels were nearly as well armed as the _Madesta_ , it would be a bloodbath. Arden knew Kilcoranians well enough to realize that the fort at Illen’s Arm wouldn’t surrender to Westernese marauders until every last defender was slain. He shuddered. Valory had been right, but the confession had come at a price. He certainly wasn’t in any position to gloat.

Valory sunk down heavily onto the midships housetop, unwilling to even go as far as the mainsail Ballantine. _Or perhaps unwilling to bring such sorrow there_ , Arden amended, watching the Prince’s normally proud shoulders slump forward as he dropped his head into his hands. Arden’s heart wrenched at the sight. It was difficult to watch someone he had grown to care so much about suffer, though Arden supposed that he would have felt more distress had Valory felt no remorse at all.

“Val,” he murmured, sitting down as well. He let out a long sigh of breath. His head was pounding.

“Illen forgive me,” Valory whispered.

“You were right.”

“Cold comfort.”

“Perhaps, but without what we know, Illen’s Arm would have been a massacre.”

“It still might be. The attack will come in just under two weeks’ time.”

“We can warn them. They can get help from Bightton.”

“Against ten heavily armed Westernese vessels? I doubt _Madesta_ was the largest of them. It will not be enough, not with most of the Oceanic navy out on patrol right now. We will need to gather all of the help we can find and hope we aren’t too late.” Valory hadn’t lifted his head from his hands.

Arden shifted closer until their knees bumped. “What do you propose?”

“We should continue on towards Kalma. They might not have many warships in port, but they’ll have military men there. We’ll need every pair of hands we can get.”

“You think we can turn around in time to reach Illen’s Arm by dawn of the fifteenth?”

“We have no other choice.”

Arden sighed, massaging his temples with both hands. The throbbing headache had yet to ease up, and talk of battle at Illen’s Arm wasn’t doing him any favors. “To Kalma we go, then. It’s a good thing Lars was able to find replacement bolts for _Madesta_ ’s shrouds. They’ll make good time.”

Valory eyed him over the heel of one hand. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into that. It was selfish of me.”

“Selfish?”

“Your support was welcome. I’m not certain I would have wrested that last confession from him otherwise,” Valory admitted.

Arden wondered how he felt about the fact that his presence had made it easier for his Prince to nearly suffocate a captive. He sighed. “I’m glad I could be of service, but really Val – I hope that my earlier caustic criticisms on the matter aren’t haunting you.”

“Your words burned only because they were so on point.”

Arden frowned. “I spoke too quickly, and am sorry for it. This was what Callum would call a ‘no-win’. I should have seen that you realized that. You’re sorrowful and I suppose that’s only right, but I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

Valory’s hands still propped his head up, elbows dug into the muscles of his thighs. Arden’s words were soothing, deep voice calm and sure as it always was. “I told you before, you need never apologize for the counsel you give, my St—my friend,” he stuttered, wincing.

Arden didn’t miss his verbal faux pas. He swallowed the bitter-sweetness that rose up in his breast. He would never be Valory’s Steward. He swore his headache worsened at that remembrance. “Then take this counsel as well: stop torturing _yourself_. War is vile business.”

“It is. I told you I did not relish in these methods.”

“You made a decision. You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.” Arden rubbed his temples again.

“Are you alright?” Valory asked, peering at him from between his fingers.

Arden grunted. “Just tired.”

“Oh?”

“And . . . I suppose I keep replaying images from the day in my head. You know that I have no love lost for battle.”

“Ah.”

“I keep seeing the face of the man I killed by the caprail. You saw him, didn’t you? I think you were dropping the last of the bolts at the time.”

“You intercepted his blade. I remember,” Valory nodded.

“We were face to face in the end. I looked him in the eye as I killed him. The look – Gods, Val – the look on his face . . .”

“It never gets easier, does it?”

“I had thought . . . I don’t know. You seemed to be having an easier time of it,” Arden admitted.

“You let yourself remember. I force myself not to.”

“How can you not? That would feel so wrong to me.”

“Because it’s simpler, I suppose. I know it’s cowardly of me. You have a far stronger heart than I, if you carry the memories of the lives you’ve taken with you wherever you go. I admire that.”

“I fear I’m not worthy of admiration today,” Arden sighed.

Valory shook his head wordlessly. They fell silent for a few minutes, keeping one another heavy-hearted company. Arden looked out at the ghostly form of the _Madesta_ , hove-to off of their port stern. The moon was full that night, its beams painting the schooner in a pale blue glow. It was the wrong moon cycle for firefish, but Arden could still the occasional pinprick of light in the dark rolling waves. It was a beautiful night, yet Arden found he could not appreciate it properly. Even the glow of the firefish seemed somehow tainted in the aftermath of such a day.

Valory pulled his head from his hands at last, rolling his shoulders. His back cracked audibly; Arden winced in sympathy. “I told Little about what you said at the church on Lyre.”

“What did he think?” Arden asked, grateful for the change in subject.

“He thinks you’re right. He said he has always found it difficult to help me after I’ve done work, because he has always had the impression that if he let his guard down the whole process would have run in reverse. He thought it had something to do with the strength of my enchantment, but,” Valory shrugged. “In retrospect it makes sense.”

“Doesn’t everything always seem clearer with the aid of hindsight?”

“Hmm. He’s been teaching me a few things.”

“How is it?” Arden asked.

“A bit like being eleven again, to tell you the truth. I’m not yet very good, but it’s coming along.”

“I’m sure the Master Empath will be glad to hear it, should we ever actually make it to Ithaka.”

Valory’s lips quirked in something approaching a smile – the first one Arden had seen in hours. “No doubt. Little seems to think I’ll have a good hand at the art once I’ve had practice.”

“You’d think he’d have let you in the salon with the wounded.”

“As an unpracticed Healer?”

“Alright, maybe not,” Arden conceded. “But how does one get practice without being able to practice?”

“Well for starters, I was wondering whether or not you were attached to that headache of yours,” Valory admitted.

Arden gawped for a moment before he realized that his fingers were still massaging his temples. He smiled. “Ah, well. If you think you’re _that_ good, my Lord,” he teased. He dropped his hands to his sides, pressing the palms against the teak decking.

Valory brought his own hands up to either side of Arden’s head. His thumbs pressed against the shadow of a beard that roughened Arden’s jaw, supporting his palms which splayed across both cheekbone and temple. After a moment’s hesitation he threaded his fingers through Arden’s hair, fingertips pressing gently against the scalp. Hooded eyes peered at him with lazy interest.

It was still difficult for Valory to feel out Arden’s headache; he was far from skilled, after all. When he did encounter it, pressing in against Arden’s temples from both sides, he tried to picture it as Little had taught him. The accuracy of the image was less important with aches and pains than it was for more precise medicine; Little explained that creating an image as a stand-in for an intangible object helped him better focus his energies. The mental image helped Valory as well. Slowly, soothingly, he ran the pads of his thumbs over Arden’s temples, imagining as he did that he was smoothing out the strands of a tangled knot. He pulled the energy of the knot in through his thumbs, forcing it up his arms, through his torso, and down out his toes. He knew if he wasn’t careful, he would rid Arden of the ache by transferring it to his own body.

Arden sighed, eyes shutting as he leaned into the ministrations. Valory watched with pleasure and no small amount of pride as the wrinkles between Arden’s brows eased and the tension left his shoulders. His thumbs stilled as he smoothed out the last strands of the knot, but Arden didn’t pull his head away. After a few long moments Valory decided to seize the opportunity and ran his thumbs behind Arden’s ears and down to press at the taut muscles at the nape of his neck.

Arden surely must have known that this was above and beyond what had been promised, but let out a soft noise of encouragement all the same. Valory swallowed a noise of his own. Arden certainly didn’t seem averse to his small affections, although he was tactile enough that it was difficult to know for certain. Even if he wasn’t misreading Arden’s intentions, he was willfully ignoring the greater issue: life aboard _Windjammer_ was distinctly different from what awaited them at home. He was still betrothed.

Thoughts of Sybina seemed completely out of place on deck in the hush of a night passage; they didn’t meld with the feel of the wind on his face, of _Windjammer_ ’s sway, of Arden’s skin warm beneath his fingers. The thought of her gave him pause.

Desire had a way of fogging the mind and causing errors in judgment, errors that could end the fledgling friendship that he and Arden had embarked upon, or one day, even disrupt the delicate balance that Conrad had achieved in Anaphe. Valory had never before considered himself a slave to passion, and so the thought of failing to put Oceana’s needs before his own had always seemed unthinkable. Over the past few weeks, however, he had begun to question his self-assurance.

Valory wondered whether or not he was finally getting his comeuppance for believing himself above such desires, or at the very least, too practical to succumb to them. His resolve was profoundly weakened in Arden’s presence. If it came to it, he knew that he would not deny Arden’s advances. If –granted, _if_ – he and Arden became lovers, it would mean a great deal of skulking and scheming on both of their parts. Typically Valory would pass on an affiliation that involved so much risk, but he couldn’t help thinking that Arden would be so _worth_ all of that. Such thoughts frightened him: he had never been one to dismiss logic so glibly in the past.

He figured that he needed perspective on the matter, but on a schooner the size of _Windjammer_ such perspective was sorely lacking. He had no such perspective in this moment: his hands were on Arden’s neck, Arden’s eyes were shut, and a look of such perfect bliss had captured his features that Valory found his thoughts spiraling in all sorts of directions, not all of them strictly lustful. _Of course our time would be limited with me being sent to Anaphe, but if he were to get a captaincy he would have to visit on patrol once a season, and . . ._

And here he was, already planning trysts when he still had no solid indication that Arden was so inclined. He nearly groaned in frustration. He could not even give voice to the attraction he felt, could not suit action to the words that were stopped up in the back of his throat. Any word, any indication on his part of the desire he felt was tantamount to a command when spoken to a subject, especially one born to the House of Stewards. No. He would have to make the invitation as plain as he dared and hope that Arden would come to him, else he would never know whether or not he had taken part in some sort of vile coercion. Inaction, however, was not Valory’s strong suit. He sighed out loud this time as Arden arched into his touch. The man was going to drive him mad.

The pat of booted feet alerted Valory to another’s approach. Arden’s eyes flicked open. They slid apart; Valory pulled his hands back as quickly as he dared without drawing undue attention to the movement. Callum descended the quarterdeck steps and headed in their direction.

“Prince Valory, Jack – any news?” he asked, stretching as though he had just woken from sleep.

“He spoke, eventually. Not much, but enough to go by,” Valory said.

“Oh?” Callum asked. Valory thought he saw a flicker of amusement in the Captain’s eyes, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was approval or mockery.

“There are ten more Westernese vessels in our waters, all headed for Illen’s Arm to storm the fort at dawn on the fifteenth,” Arden said.

Callum’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “That’s not what I was hoping to hear, lad.”

“If only I had a Royal for every time one of us has said that in the last month,” Arden muttered.

“What are your thoughts, sir?” Callum asked.

“I had thought we might go to Kalma for reinforcements before attempting to intercept the stragglers,” Valory said.

“Do you think we’ll make it in time?”

“To intercept any vessels? I suppose it’ll depend on the wind, won’t it?”

“I have a feeling we shouldn’t set such lofty goals,” Callum replied.

“You don’t think it’ll be favorable, then?” Valory asked.

“The wind on Kilcoran’s southern coast is notoriously shifty. I agree with Callum – I have a feeling we won’t be able to intercept the vessels. We didn’t get a rendezvous location out of the Commodore, anyway,” Arden said.

“If we cannot intercept the vessels before the day, then we will smash them against the fort at Illen’s Arm that morning. But we will need all of the help we can get – including _Windjammer_ and her crew.”

“Rest assured, you will have it – from us, at the very least,” Callum nodded. “So we make for Kythria after all.”

“We make for Kythria. To prize court with the _Madesta_ , to the fort at Kalma to share our information, and to the church: to pray to Ranael for a speedy journey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> In Oceana, marriage, virginity, and faithfulness within marriage are prized insofar as they secure a legitimate line of succession (or secure a political alliance) -- and no more beyond that. As such there tends to be a class divide where faithfulness, marriage, etc. would be prized by those with titles or amassed wealth, and not as important within the lower classes. As it is in our world today, however, financial stability and security would be a deciding factor for non-titled Oceanic citizens.
> 
> Because marriage is an important part of passing on one's title/wealth/etc., members of the Oceanic nobility would hesitate to identify as homosexual. So while it's not unheard of, those who are 'out' are going to be almost entirely members of the lower socioeconomic classes. Hence, one of the few places you would encounter a gay couple in Oceana would be in the military or aboard merchant vessels.
> 
> As a result, homosexuality would bear a stigma: at least in the eyes of the wealthy and titled classes. Noblemen/women would consider homosexuality/homosexual relationships to be base, crass, or beneath their station. *That* is why the verses indicating that Eramen and Drand were lovers are so unpopular with Miran and others: they think it debases the memory of Oceana's heroes (perhaps even more so because the Kilcoranian verses paint their relationship as far, far more than physical).
> 
> This, more than anything, is why Valory isn't open about his sexuality.
> 
> Valory, I might add, is in a pretty impossible position because of his rank. The Oceanic people wouldn't be immune to the same misconceptions modern people have about roles and power exchange n homosexual relationships; one could imagine that this would limit his choice of lovers and (very likely) influence his lovers' behavior both in and out of bed. In Arden he sees an equal, and that's a big part of the appeal: a man from the House of Stewards is about the only one in the world who has the rank to go toe-to-toe with him.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 3; 2421_

Lord Jarmon studied Lady Fiona’s face as she poured two cups of coffee, waving her servant away in order to play the part of the dutiful host. She looked so very young and small in the blue and silver robes of her father’s house. Though her dainty, pretty features were schooled to careful neutrality, Jarmon could still see the worried crease that perpetually lined her brow these days.

“There you are,” she said, giving his cup a splash of cream just the way he liked it.

He took it eagerly from her hands, sipping at the hot brew. “Thank you, my Lady.”

“You are welcome. But let’s have this news, please. I know you didn’t come for a social call.”

Jarmon felt an unexpected laugh rumble out of his chest. Fiona sounded so very much like her late father at times. “Of course, my Lady. Another set of dispatches arrived while you were meeting with the harbormaster.”

“Where from?”

“One from Lyre, one from the Borderlands, one from Armathia.”

“What news?”

Jarmon could hear the slight tremor in her voice. She knew well enough by now to expect the worst. “The messenger from Lyre had reports of pirate attacks, told in second and third hand. The cutter _Analise_ is a month late to port and assumed lost at sea. Incidences of attack by creatures are on the rise. There are also rumors of sea-witches.”

“Aren’t there always some rumors of sea-witches about?” Fiona asked.

“Yes, but this is not a solitary hunting witch. The rumor from Lyre is that one of our navy vessels – the _Rhane_ – was beset by them. Their escape was a near thing.”

“Can we trust rumor?”

“Trust? No, but it would be foolish to pay it no heed at all, especially not in times as dark as these. Until we receive dispatches from Kythria we will not know for certain. In the mean time we should assume our waters to be infested with them.”

“Any news from Kilcoran and Ithaka?”

“More rumors – the Master Seer is having visions of darkness, the locker, and the like. Again, without word from the man himself . . .”

“Of course. Anything else?” Fiona asked, voice hopeful.

“The messenger from Lyre did have one happy piece of news: there were rumors of a mercenary crew spending a week in Old Town. They were the hardened sort, with a fearsome commander. There was a Dramorian making inquiries around the local watering hole at the same time.”

“How is that good news?” Fiona asked.

“The description given was an exact match for Prince Valory and his Dramorian spy. They were in Lyre towards the end of Ranád.”

“Then Prince Valory is safe,” Fiona said, relieved. “That is good news indeed. They will be reaching Kythria soon, I hope.”

“Kythria’s dispatches aren’t due in for some time,” Jarmon reminded her. “Hopefully they will send word, or some rumor of their presence will work its way back to us.”

“So that is all the news from Lyre?” Fiona asked.

“It is.” Jarmon set his cup down.

“And what of the messenger who was sent to assess the situation in the Borderlands?”

Lord Jarmon sighed. “I’m afraid I have more bad news for you, my Lady.”

“Of course you do.”

“When I received the King’s courier from Armathia, he handed me a parcel of dispatches from the Borderlands. There was another bout of attacks within the farming communities there; a number of livestock have been reported missing.”

“The last I had heard of that was when Prince Valory brought us news of Lannoch. There was some dispute over whether or not such attacks were the result of desert wolves expanding their hunting grounds.”

“I had thought that to be the most plausible explanation as well, but the manner of delivery of these dispatches has given me pause.”

“How so, because they were brought by the Armathian courier? That is not so uncommon,” Fiona shrugged. “It would not be the first time two couriers consolidated their dispatches for the sake of efficiency.”

“Perhaps – but when the Armathian met our messenger, our man was in no position to do much consolidation. He was lying dead by the side of the highway. The courier knew the man’s occupation by his livery and risked his own life to secure the dispatches he carried. In the process he managed to get a good look at the other man’s wounds.”

“Let me guess – they weren’t from a wolf,” Fiona sighed, shutting her eyes. She had known the Anaphean messenger in passing; a kind man with a wife and children.

“Not only that, but he recovered a fang that had broken off in the messenger’s body. I have seen the thing with my own eyes. It certainly did not come from a desert wolf.”

“Then what?” Fiona asked.

“I have no idea; the teeth of desert creatures are not my particular specialty. I have given it to one of the naturalists for study, but it worries me that even he seemed stumped at first glance.”

“In other words, our farming communities and couriers are being brutally stalked by bloodthirsty, fanged creatures. Wonderful news, Lord Jarmon,” Fiona sighed, pressing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “How will I keep this province together if I cannot give my own people some reasonable assurance of safety?”

“The rumor is war, my Lady. You cannot keep everyone from harm when the armies come.”

“But what armies, Lord Jarmon? We have received no news of the sort,” she replied, clearly distressed.

“The dispatches from Armathia were sealed and addressed to your father, stamped with the King’s sigil,” Jarmon murmured. “They are for you to open. They might enlighten us as to why our borders have become sporting ground for some sort of desert monster.”

He pushed the envelope across the table towards her. She lifted it up with a small pale hand, running a finger lightly over the wax seal. It was the first royal dispatch she had ever held in her hands, Jarmon knew. She broke the seal reverently, sliding out two packets of letters. One had the royal seal affixed to it; the other was stamped by the House of Stewards. She pried open the first letter and began reading aloud.

_“Lord Steward Conrad bar Miran di Oceana, acting Viceroy of Anaphe and loyal subject of Armathia:_

_On this day the third of Ranád, our Lord King Adrianth bar Durand di Oceana has left these shores on the Ship of the East. His passing was peaceful, finally bringing an end to the suffering he has endured these years past. As is customary he will be given to the sea so that he might be borne East by Illen as a reward for a life well lived._

_He is succeeded by Crown Prince Siath bar Adrianth di Oceana whose coronation is yet to occur. Prince Siath is waiting for his brother to return to Armathia. At that time Lord Adrianth will be released into Illen’s arms, and the crown will pass from his hands. Until Prince Valory’s return, however, none are to know that the King’s days have ended. You will remain in Anaphe to rule in Oceana’s name until a new King is crowned, and Prince Valory made Regent. Upon that occasion, the newly-made Regent will make for Anaphe and assume the viceroyalty as per his late King’s wishes._

_Prince Valory will arrive on the peninsula with a complement of men. Upon his arrival you will swear your fealty to him as Steward, and join with him in the quest to rid our borders – and our court – of Dramor’s influence by whatever means necessary. Diplomatic relations with our desert neighbors have been cut off entirely. Lord Lester, emissary to Dramor, has written of instability within the Indarian court. A plot against our nation is suspected, though its nature has not yet been divined. Proceed until Prince Valory’s arrival with all due caution._

_This letter is to be burned after reading._

_May the wind be at your back._

_Queen Persephone bar Darian di Oceana  
High Steward Miran bar Alistair di Oceana.”_

Jarmon let out a long breath. “That is not at all what I was expecting.”

“The King is dead,” Fiona whispered.

“The King is dead. Long live the King,” Jarmon added.

“But Prince Siath has not yet been crowned – and my grandfather is still the High Steward,” Fiona said, confused. “Why would they do that?”

“They do not have to wait for Prince Valory to return home, that is true, but I rather suspect that they do not want Dramor to think that there is an untested King upon the throne until the Regent is here in Anaphe. We would risk rebellion throughout the peninsula, otherwise.”

“Especially now,” Fiona murmured, laying the letter down at the corner of the table. “You don’t suspect his death came as some sort of . . .” she trailed off.

“No, my Lady. Your father once told me the nature of King Adrianth’s illness. He was an old man, especially for one not possessed of an enchantment. As the letter said, it was only a matter of time before he gave into the call of the East. It is your father’s death which is very coincidental, coming five days after the King’s.”

“That is not nearly enough time for word to come from Armathia,” Fiona frowned.

“No, but the Queen’s letter does not specify when he took a turn for the worse,” Jarmon said, pursing his lips. “Of course this is just speculation, my Lady – no more.”

“Of course,” Fiona murmured. “At least we have a timeline, now. Prince Valory has been in the isles for a month. Another month – perhaps six weeks, if the weather worsens – and he will be back in Armathia. At least another six weeks will pass again before he is here. I must hold Anaphe for three more months.”

Jarmon hadn’t seen such a vulnerable expression cross Fiona’s features since she took up the viceroy’s staff weeks earlier. “That’s merely a season, Lady Fiona.”

“For someone not as lost as I, yes. I know not what I’m doing in this livery. It just seemed that . . . well, who else would stand here in my place? Samir? He would have petitioned for the title because of his bloodline . . .” she seemed to realize that she was rambling and cut herself off. “In faith, I do not know why you went along with me.”

“You might not have the training for your position, but you have been a quick study so far. Perhaps you were not prepared for it as you would have been were you Conrad’s son rather than his daughter, but as you pointed out; you are a far cry better than the alternative.”

“I have heard some of the councilors laughing when they think I cannot hear, as though I am some little girl playing dress up,” Fiona said.

“You are not a girl anymore – certainly not after the events of these past few weeks,” Jarmon said, slowly. “You have a young face and you lack experience, true, but your opponents are not fools. They know that you are capable. Bear in mind, Lady Fiona, that grown men are not above using petty insults as a means to an end. They are looking to shake your confidence in hopes that you might blindly follow their guidance. Beware their counsel.”

“Then what does it say about me, that I fall for such tricks and feel myself waver every time I hear them say such things?”

“It says that you are young still, and untried. Not unlike Prince Siath.”

“Prince Siath is hardly young,” Fiona frowned.

“Young, perhaps not. That he is untried as King is undoubted, however. I do not doubt that his first year on the throne will be very similar to the experience you are having at this very moment.”

“How fortunate he is to have Lord Steward Verne with him, who he trusts. As fortunate as I am, I suppose, to have your support – though I still do not see what I have done to earn it.”

“You have brass, little one,” Jarmon said, a gentle smile softening the craggy lines of his aged face. “I’d respect anyone who showed the kind of courage that you have.”

“Courage doesn’t seem to be winning over the opposition,” Fiona muttered.

“No, it’s not. Do you know why?” Jarmon asked.

“Why?”

“Because it’s scaring the pants off of them. You’re born to the House of Stewards. No matter that you fall outside the line of succession: you’re still a part of that family, and Stewards don’t roll over for just anyone. Those boys in there know that, and they’re afraid because of it.”

“But you’re not?” she asked.

“Don’t misunderstand me, my Lady – this situation is not ideal, and I would have appreciated it if you hadn’t felt the need to surprise me the day you first took up the staff. All that said, I recognize that you are holding the peninsula in the name of the King, and might be the only Anaphean noble who would do so without ulterior motives. You may well be the only thing keeping the Dramorian sympathizers from claiming the staff for their own. As the Queen said in her letter: it’s a dangerous place to be.”

“I don’t know if I’m capable enough to hold them back,” she said, voice soft, “certainly not if I lack the united support of those with Oceanic loyalties.”

“Whether you believe it or not, Lady Fiona, you spoiled a coup simply by moving forward with your legitimate claim to your father’s title. You have set yourself up as an obstacle between Samir’s cohort and Anaphe.”

“You think it was Samir who killed my father?” Fiona asked.

“No, but he wouldn’t have hesitated to take advantage of the situation. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I think my judgment is too clouded where my father’s death is concerned,” she whispered.

“I am having similar difficulties,” Jarmon admitted. “At least our orders are clear; even if we have come no nearer to understanding the nature of the threat at our borders.”

“The Queen implied that Dramor was behind it,” Fiona said.

“Yes, but that still does not tell us ‘why’, nor does it give us an explanation for the trouble in the isles,” Jarmon pointed out. “Dramor is but a piece of this puzzle.”

“Should I open the other letter? Perhaps it has more information,” Fiona suggested.

“By all means.”

Fiona cracked the seal on the second letter and began to read aloud,

_“Brother,_

_I’m sure that news of our King’s passing does not come as a surprise to you, knowing what you did of his health. Father is deeply grieved, of course, but has turned his focus to acting as a councilman for the Queen. Both of us harbor a great deal of admiration for our Ladyship, a fact which has made the transition easier._

_Father has begun readying me for the role of High Steward in earnest. I will admit to feeling some anticipation for the day that Prince Siath is crowned; I only wish that you could be in Armathia to see me stand at his side during the coronation. I hope that Prince Valory’s imminent move to Anaphe might allow you to visit home once again in the near future. It has been far too long._

_How do you fare these days, brother, and how are your girls? In response to your last letter: you must forgive my bold words, for I know you have hesitated to separate the sisters on account of Thia’s untimely passing, but perhaps it is time to give more thought to the suitors who have written you for Fiona’s hand. She is nineteen and past ripe for a marriage of her own. We are in need of stronger roots in Anaphe, especially amongst those who had ties to the usurper’s government. Prince Valory is doing his part with the Lady Sybina, but a second alliance would not be unwelcome. Perhaps Edmund’s nephew might be a good match?_

_As I write to you of family matters, I confess that news of my own is aching to be put down onto paper. We have recently confirmed that Agatha is with child. The physicians say that she is healthy and will give birth without any complications. My Lord Siath is convinced that it will be a boy. I am thrilled. Your daughters are incomparably lovely, dear brother, but we both know that I must produce boys to fill out the next generation of the House of Stewards. I have decided to name him Alistair after our grandfather. Agatha approves, of course: it is a strong, noble name that will suit the boy who will succeed me as High Steward someday._

_Agatha is several months along now, and already showing. I look forward to the birth of our child, though I do confess to feeling nervous at the prospect. I have been trained for my role as High Steward since the nursery, but have never been given a word of advice on how to be a father. Of course our own father is here to see me through the early days of fatherhood, but I look back and remember how things were between him and Arden, and I hope that I will never grow so distant from my own son. I hope that, if you are able to get out and visit Armathia, it might be at such a time to meet your new nephew and indulge your older brother with some advice on the art of child rearing._

_Of the rest – you know of whom I speak – I have precious little news. One of my men recently told me of a scribe in one of the coastal towns who fit Arden’s description. Normally I would have followed the lead immediately, but in times such as this it is impossible to spare any men to reconnoiter for personal reasons. That said I hope that I might investigate this lead when things at the border have calmed. I know that you have your doubts, but I am certain he is still out there. We will find him._

_May the wind be at your back, brother,  
Verne”_

Jarmon and Fiona each considered the contents of the letter for a few moments. “A personal missive,” Jarmon said.

“My father was considering marrying me off to Samir,” Fiona said, stunned.

“If it turns out that he wasn’t a part of the plot to poison your father, that might not be the worst idea,” Jarmon said. At the look of disgust that crossed Fiona’s face, Jarmon tutted. “Come now, my Lady – do not prove all of my hopeful words about your potential wrong by holding out hope for love and fancy and all the rest.”

“But . . . Samir?” she asked, sagging back in her chair.

“If his name is clear, I encourage you to think on it,” Jarmon said. “Let’s take things one step at a time, however: it will be Prince Valory who will make such arrangements on your father’s behalf when he arrives in a few months’ time.”

“What of my sisters?” Fiona asked.

“Lady Alicia is old enough to be matched as well. Lady Alma may be promised.”

“She’s still only fifteen,” Fiona protested.

“The Lady Sybina was promised to Prince Valory at birth,” Jarmon pointed out.

“But Prince Valory is . . . is . . .” Fiona trailed off.

“What, closer to the picture of your girlish vision of romance? Please Lady Fiona, disabuse yourself of such notions. I would hate to have to lower my opinion of your levelheadedness.”

“Yes, of course,” Fiona murmured.

“Besides, as I said, nothing more will come of it until the Prince is here in Anaphe. Depending on your service in the coming months, he may require you to stay on in an official capacity. After all, the Regent will arrive without a Steward.”

“Uncle Verne seems to think that my Uncle Arden is still alive,” Fiona said, thoughtfully. “My father always hoped he was as well. He told all three of us about him quite often. Less these past few years I’ll admit, but . . .” she trailed off. “I suppose you think that fanciful on his part, as well?”

Jarmon nodded. “I had long attempted to persuade your father to stop spending time and resources searching for his younger brother. Even if Lord Arden is alive, it is obvious that he does not wish to be found. It was a difficult thing for your father to accept. The memory of his missing brother grieved him to the end, but – what more could he do?”

“Did you know my Uncle Arden?” Fiona asked.

Jarmon couldn’t help but feel as though Fiona were one of his grandchildren begging for a story. He shook his head. It would not do to think of the acting viceroy of Anaphe in such a manner. “I did not,” he admitted. “My family relocated to Anaphe very shortly after it was reconquered by King Durand. Your grandfather was born around that time.”

“You remember that?”

“Oh, no. I was still in my mother’s womb. Anaphe is the only home I have ever known,” Jarmon smiled.

“Oh,” Fiona said, a faraway look on her face.

“Why do you ask, my Lady?”

“Another one of my fanciful notions, I’m afraid,” she said wryly. “I was wondering whether Uncle Arden might finally come out of hiding if he were to find out that he was needed.”

“He would not need to.”

“But that would leave Prince Valory without a Steward.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. In the past it was not uncommon to appoint a Steward when one from the House could not take up the position. Such a thing has not been necessary for many years, however.”

“Hopefully it won’t be necessary in this case, either.”

Jarmon shook his head. “I will give you the same counsel that I gave your father, my Lady – it is best to assume that he has gone East with Illen. Imagining it to be any other way will only bring you sorrow.”

“Father said he was dreadfully smart. It would have been nice to have him here,” Fiona sighed. “I’d like to have met him.”

“I wholeheartedly second that sentiment, Lady Fiona. Rest assured if he were to miraculously come walking out of the waves to claim his birthright, I would embrace his return wholeheartedly – providing, of course, that he was fit for the role.”

“I wish I could have known him.”

Jarmon smiled sadly at the young woman before taking his final sip of coffee. “That’s a fairly popular sentiment,” he finally said, “even amongst those who did.”

…

“You know me far too well,” Arden said with a smile, taking the apple cake that Valory held in his outstretched hand.

“I figured that neglecting to bring a corner piece would have resulted in severe retribution,” Valory replied, watching as Arden bit into the confection, eyes shut with pleasure.

“I take it this is bribery, then,” Arden said through a mouthful of crumbs.

“From Ehrin, not from me. It will be time to bring food to the Commodore soon; she’s tired of having the trays kicked back at her.”

“He is still being obstinate in that regard, then?” Arden asked frowning.

“Yes. I had thought he would soften with time; perhaps that was naïve of me. We have shown him no real kindness. Illen knows I would be doing the same.”

“Our hands were tied, as you said,” Arden said, lowering his head.

“I wish you wouldn’t carry the guilt for what I ordered done.”

Arden glanced up at Valory, who seemed to know his thoughts well. “I was equally complicit. It still troubles me.”

“And I as well,” Valory said, voice hushed. “Enough that I’ve been using a soft hand these past few days.”

“Did Gabe glean anything from him last night?”

“Only that he thinks the man is telling the truth, but can’t be certain. We know not whether other attacks are planned. I find myself unable to strap him back to the board to be sure.”

“If the Commodore did not mastermind the attacks but is only responsible for carrying out the raid itself, it follows that he would not be aware of any other plans.”

“Because of capture and arrest? I had thought so as well. Even if there _are_ more Westernese vessels out there, I’m afraid there is little we can do about it. We might not even make it to Illen’s Arm in time.”

“Gods,” Arden groaned. “What a mess. Did Gabe get any more from him regarding the relationship with Dramor?”

“Not much. The Commodore keeps his secrets well-guarded. Over time I hope we might come to know a few more of them.”

“What are we going to do with him?”

Valory sighed, sinking down to sit on the deck box next to his friend. “At first I had thought we would leave him in Kalma to be ransomed along with the other officers. Now I’m not so certain if leaving him on Kythria is a good decision.”

“Why’s that?” Arden asked.

“I doubt that the military commanders at the fort in Kalma will be quite so forgiving of our Commodore’s eccentricities, nor will they try to exhaust all other methods of interrogation before resorting to torture. I am no fan of my own methods, but . . .”

“No, you’re right. Neither of us wants that on our conscience.”

“I also have a feeling that the information he holds is more valuable than that. I want to take him back to Armathia with us. At least that way I would oversee any future interrogations.”

“You’re putting a lot of weight on your own shoulders,” Arden noted.

“It only seems fair.”

“Well in the face of that, I suppose bringing the Commodore his noon meal doesn’t seem quite as much of a chore. I assume that’s the favor Ehrin wanted to ask of me.” Arden surmised.

“Just so.”

“I’ll do it, but she’s going to owe me far more than an apple cake as recompense.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know that.”

Arden’s returned his attention to the small pool of water that lay between them on the deck box. Valory watched as the water moved, swirling into intricate spiral patterns. At first he wondered whether Arden was practicing, but figured that wasn’t likely to be the case. He was simply playing. Valory tried to remember the last time he used his enchantment for entertainment, but nothing came to mind.

“Do you do this often?” he asked, gesturing towards the pattern of interlocking circles Arden had created. As Arden’s attention wavered with Valory’s question, the circles began to run together.

“I find it relaxing. It doesn’t take much energy,” he shrugged. “You don’t do anything of the sort?”

“No – not for many years. I think perhaps your enchantment leaves more room for play.”

“That’s not what I heard from the courtiers in Armathia.”

“That was a different sort of play, though. I hardly think such mischief would reflect well upon a man my age,” Valory replied, a shade of a smile on his face.

“You say that as though you’re ancient.”

“Sometimes I feel that way.”

“I suppose that’s something you might as well get used to, all things considered. You have many years left to you yet.”

“So people keep reminding me,” Valory noted.

“Have you ever spoken to a Seer about it?”

“Inadvertently, yes.”

“Your mother and brother must have a very clear picture of your potential for longevity; even my limited talent has given me impressions of such.”

“Has it?”

“It’s that feeling I get when I look out over the horizon at the beginning of a long journey,” Arden shrugged. “That’s how I interpret it. As I said I’m not particularly powerful.”

“My mother thinks I could see three hundred,” Valory said.

“I can only imagine how much you’ll whinge about your age then.”

Valory thumped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for that. And what about you? Seers seem hardly ever able to keep such speculations to themselves.”

“I don’t know. Old. My House is notoriously long-lived, as you know.”

“You could outlive me,” Valory stated. It wasn’t something he often got the chance to say.

“I could,” Arden allowed. “It’s probably unlucky to hazard too many guesses on the matter.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

A muffled curse alerted them to Little’s presence on the leeward side of the deck. He stood hunched over with his back to the wind, a book of matches in one hand and Imran’s pipe clenched between his teeth. Valory smiled, intending to tease him about it later – he had warned the man that he’d pick up the habit if he wasn’t careful. It seemed that he hadn’t been wrong.

Little cursed again, unable to get the match to stay lit. The wind that bore them in towards the bay at Kalma was far too strong. Feeling their eyes on him he looked up, gesturing sheepishly at the last of his burnt-out matches.

“Come on over, I’ll light it for you,” Arden called.

“I don’t know sir,” Little replied as he approached, “I’m not sure I’d want you to miss and set my shirt ablaze. Or should we just blame Val and his awful enchantment for what you did to the _Madesta_ ’s ratlines?”

Arden laughed in spite of his uneasiness at the way his enchantment had spun out of his control that day. “Oh, don’t worry – I’d put it out before it did you too much damage,” he replied, sounding lighter than he felt.

Little stopped before him, tapping the pipe wordlessly. A moment later the herbs were smoldering and smoking. Little took a long puff, exhaling with a happy sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

“You saw the fire as well, Little?” Valory asked.

“Out of the corner of my eye, yeh. It was a peculiar thing,” Little responded, joining them on a neighboring deck box.

“I didn’t see it, but I remember feeling it. You must have discharged a lot of energy,” Valory turned to Arden.

“Sorry about that. I should have taken my hand off of your chest before I did anything,” Arden murmured, shifting uncomfortably.

“My memory of the incident is admittedly spotty, but I’m inclined to believe that I’d be dead if you had taken the time to think things through.”

Little chuckled while puffing on the pipe again, smoke curling out of his nose and mouth. “Lord Arden throws a knife like a Sarian huntsman.”

“Really? All I remember is the fire,” Valory said.

“I wasn’t even trying to light it. I threw my rig knife unthinking. As soon as it left my hand there was a flash.” Arden shrugged helplessly. “Honestly I have no idea how I managed it. The _Madesta_ was far enough away by that time that I hadn’t thought my enchantment would reach.”

“Did I amplify yours again?” Valory asked.

“Again?” Little put in.

“I had a proper vision in Lyre thanks to him,” Arden explained.

Little puffed on the pipe, thoughtful. “Were you touching him when it happened?”

“Yes,” Arden said, surprised. “I know you’ve had yours amplified by Val in the past – is that what triggers it?”

“It’s tough to say, since I need to touch to heal. Obviously there’s more to it. I’ve been wondering more about the amplification since I learned about your discoveries in Lyre.”

“My second talent?” Valory clarified.

“Can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.”

“I never would have known if I didn’t have a second myself,” Arden assured him.

“Yeh, but for a Healer to work with another Healer for nigh on ten years and not notice . . .” Little shook his head. “What I’m getting at is, d’you think that it’s your second talent that’s doing the amplification?”

“Does it matter?” Valory asked.

“I don’t know, but I wonder if it’s the Healing talent that’s doing it, wouldn’t it make sense that it’s sparked by touch?”

“Maybe,” Valory considered.

“Perhaps the amplification comes not because it’s a Healing talent, but because it’s a direct Gift of Illen,” Arden mused.

“Rather than one with its roots in the Illen Stone?” Valory asked.

“Idle speculation,” he shrugged.

“Well, I reckon if Kilcoran isn’t completely flattened by this Westernese invasion, you should make some time to pay the Master Seer a visit,” Little suggested.

“You as well, no?” Arden asked.

“No point. I asked the Master Healer about all this ages ago. The man has no idea why it happens. The Master Seer sort of waved it off himself, saying he didn’t know enough of my enchantment to tell me anything useful. The both of them might take the question a mite more seriously coming from you.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re priests. Pacifists. You know the sort. It baffles both of them that I cause as much injury as I repair,” Little shrugged. “They think it blasphemous, or something.”

“What of the Master Elementalist?” Arden asked. “Though I suppose we won’t have the time to see him before we leave Kythria.”

“You’ve met Roland?” Valory asked.

“And you’d want to see him again?” Little laughed.

“So he’s an utter pill – he still might have some background knowledge on the matter,” Arden said.

“A powerful telekinetic like that . . . hm,” Valory grunted.

“Not one to leap to the defense of your kind, are you?” Arden smiled.

“We can always correspond with him via letter.”

The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the hour. A head popped out of the companionway hatch beneath them. “Oh Ja-ack,” Ehrin called sweetly, squinting against the bright sunlight.

“Expecting payment for that corner piece already, are you?” Arden asked.

“I even brought you the food,” she said, holding the bowl out.

“You owe me,” Arden said, jumping down from the deck box and taking the bowl from her outstretched hand.

“I owe you,” she promised solemnly.

“Alright gentlemen,” Arden sighed, backing into the midships companionway, “if I’m not back in a half-hour, send out the search party.”

…

The Commodore sat upright, staring straight ahead, unseeing. If he was surprised that Arden was the one to bring him his meal, he didn’t show it. He was clearly hungry despite his efforts to hide it; his eyes flicked towards the plate as Arden set it down before him and his stomach let out a telltale growl.

“We’re not trying to poison you. That’s not our way.”

Félix looked pointedly away from the bowl. “Hm.”

Arden got the message. Once more, he felt guilt rise up within him. He slid to a seat on an exposed rib an arm’s length away from the Commodore, avoiding the bilge water that sloshed near his feet. “As disaffected as you try to appear, I imagine you must want news of your men. If you would refrain from throwing your meal back at me as you have done to Ehrin the past few days, I might be able to get a word or two in.”

Félix surely must have known that this was bribery, but he turned, regarding Arden carefully. “Did any survive?”

“What, do you think we’re butchers? They all did. Some were well enough to be sent back to the _Madesta_ straight away, but the others are still here.” At the Commodore’s expression of sullen disbelief, Arden added, “I’m afraid your coxswain’s arm had to be amputated – there was nothing we could do about that. It’s a lucky thing Little is on board.”

“Béla – he lived?” Félix asked. Arden noted that his accent was heavy, but not entirely unlike Imran’s.

“He did. Ehrin and Little are fairly optimistic that he’ll be back on his feet by early Ranán.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Hm.”

“Back to grunting, I see – very civilized.”

“Civilized, like using mind-torture on your captives?” Félix bit back.

Arden hung his head, looking away. “That was not our first choice. We gave you a chance.”

“To betray my mission?”

“I’m not proud of being a part of it, Commodore; but if we were the cold, calculated killers you think us to be, we would not have exhausted our Healer for your coxswain’s sake.”

“No one, man or woman, could heal such a wound as he had. When the first shroud came apart, it took his arm and set it nearly backward.”

Arden shrugged, leaning his head back against the side of the hull. “Then you know little of the country you have been ordered to attack.”

“You speak of those fairy-tales about gods and powers?”

Arden tilted his head, considering. Imran had mentioned how he hadn’t understood the nature of enchantments before becoming a double agent; he supposed it was even less likely that Félix would. The Westernese territories had not received a Gift after the Banishment. It was said that many of them claimed allegiance to no Gods at all. Besides that, Arden couldn’t deny how badly he wanted the Commodore to understand that they weren’t evil, that Valory wasn’t evil – that they had done a terrible thing because it was their only option. “Say what you will about our beliefs, man of Belen; the Gods have done well by _Windjammer_ and her crew.”

“I suppose it was one of your gods who nearly dismasted my ship, then,” Félix rolled his eyes.

“In a manner of speaking,” Arden said, ignoring the Commodore’s incredulous laugh. “Illen gave Oceana a Gift in exchange for our continued loyalty. Many of Oceana’s citizens are easy proof of that.”

“What, the gift of sinking schooners? Or did one of your men make himself invisible with your god-magic and climb aboard to cut the lanyards himself?”

Arden’s smile was sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous – he didn’t cut the lanyards. It would make sailing the _Madesta_ into prize court nearly impossible. He unshackled the dead eyes.”

Félix’s head whipped around, eyes boring into Arden’s. “I watched the final two give way. None of your men were aboard my vessel. No such thing happened.”

“You were looking in the wrong place.”

“Hm,” Félix grunted again.

“I know you’re curious. What do you fear, that I might prove years of schooling wrong?” Arden asked.

The Commodore turned away again, attempting to resume the vacant stare he had worn when Arden first entered. From the tension in his shoulders, however, Arden knew he was losing the battle. He gave in after only a few minutes of Arden’s patient silence. “Who did it?” he asked, studying Arden’s profile.

“Valory.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. His talent is very strong – uncommonly so. He is a telekinetic.” Arden decided to interpret the Commodore’s silence as a result of his unfamiliarity with the word. “He removed the bolts from the shackles that held your shrouds together. His enchantment is such that he never had to set foot aboard the _Madesta_ to do so.”

“ _Your fairy tales will not cow me into submission_ ,” Félix said, discomfort forcing him to switch back into his native tongue.

“The intent is not to cow you into submission. You are an intelligent man, Commodore, else you would not hold such a title. It galls me to see a man of no mean intellect so misinformed.”

“And I suppose you can also move mountains with your mind-magic,” Félix snorted.

Arden did not miss the quiver in his voice. “I cannot. My talent is related to Valory’s, but it manifests itself differently.”

“Hm.” Félix’s tone was dismissive this time.

Arden looked over towards the lantern secured against one of the ribs of the hull. A moment later, they were sitting in darkness. “You know,” Arden began, “my father didn’t believe me when I told him I could do this, either.” The lantern re-lit. As Félix’s features became visible once more, Arden could see that he had the Commodore’s full attention. He leaned forward, sliding the catch of the lantern open and removing the candle. It was warm to the touch.

“Tricks,” Félix stuttered.

“Why don’t you hold it, then? Just an ordinary candle,” Arden shrugged.

Félix’s bound wrists rose from their place in his lap allowing him to wind long fingers around the base of the candle. His gasp was audible when the flame went out without warning. “ _It is a mistake to play with me, Oceanic dog_ ,” he muttered.

“I am playing, yes, but I am not having you on,” Arden admitted. “You tell me when you want it lit again.”

“This moment.” The flame sprang to life again, illuminating the fearful look on the Commodore’s face.

The man’s expression did not surprise Arden. He would expect no less from a man who had been told his whole life that such enchantments were no more than propaganda. “Does evidence given to you by your own eyes change some of your opinions?”

Félix stared into the flame as if transfixed. Arden wondered whether he was waiting for it to blink out again. After a moment he turned and handed it back, lips thinning into a tight line. “You are trying to tell me that your Prince took our shrouds, and you put fire to our ratlines.”

“I was not gloating, by any means,” Arden replied, tone hushed. “That was not my intention. I merely wanted to show you that there may be some things that exist in this world beyond what you had previously considered possible. Please do not think that I took any pleasure in . . . in that.”

“You set my second Lieutenant aflame.”

“I know,” Arden whispered. “I am sorry. I would have put it out if I could have.”

“You are not sorry. He was aiming for your Prince.”

The two men locked gazes. Félix’s tone was rife with grief, yet he was not seeking to shame Arden; he was merely stating a fact. Arden wondered whether he would be so generous were there places exchanged. After a heartbeat, Arden nodded. “I’m not sorry he missed.”

“Hm.” Félix paused for a moment before adding, “The knife took his life quickly.”

Arden wondered whether or not Félix was showing him a kindness. “That is good to know.”

“Is that what I can expect for the rest of my men? A quick death?”

“Your men will be ransomed on Kythria.”

“Even the common sailors?”

“That is our way. We ransom our captives.”

“And if the ransom is not paid?” Félix asked.

“Then they will be pressed into service by the Kythrian Admiral.”

“So the fort at Kalma is my next destination,” Félix mused.

“No; you will be brought to Armathia. Your ransom will come after your interrogation is complete.”

“My interrogation. Of course,” Félix sneered.

“We are hoping to avoid the use of the board,” Arden said. “The sooner you cooperate the easier it will be for you, and the sooner you will be able to return home.”

“ _And then what? Do you suppose they will give me a hero’s welcome in Belen when they learn that I have given all of our secrets to the enemy?_ ” Félix demanded. _“Do you think they will welcome me back into the city with open arms? They will hang me for my loose tongue – and I will be glad of it._ ”

“ _I have no control over Belenese politics_ ,” Arden replied. “What I can control is the nature of the interrogation that occurs on Oceanic soil.”

“ _Do not play the part of the gracious host with me. You are no better than a damned desert-dweller. Leave me.”_

Félix struck out lightning-quick, flinging the bowl across the hold and into the opposite wall. Arden shrugged, standing and moving back towards the ladder. He didn’t pause to gather up the remains of the meal, sliding down into the bilge water. He would not give the man that satisfaction.

As he ascended back to the deck, however, one turn of phrase stuck in his head: _‘you are no better than a damned desert-dweller’._ That was the last insult he had expected to hear from a supposed ‘servant of the Lord of the desert’. Arden groaned. He was growing tired of puzzles.

Ehrin was waiting for him on deck in front of the companionway. She noticed his empty hands and frowned. “Well?” she asked.

Arden rolled his eyes. “Feed him yourself next time.”

“Again?”

“Again. Oh, and – there’s a bowl in the midships bilge.”


	10. Chapter 10

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 5; 2421_

Valory strode up the hallways of the fort at Kalma purposefully, Arden and Callum following at his heels. Jonah had returned with a response to Valory’s message just over an hour earlier, giddy with amusement. The guards at the fort had given Jonah a hard time until he handed over the letter, which Valory had stamped with the King’s seal. Jonah claimed he had never seen anyone’s eyes grow so wide so fast.

Callum was to attend the meeting with the Kythrian Admiral before heading to prize court and claiming his earnings for the _Madesta_. Valory had given Arden the option to remain behind with his crew, but the officer had been adamant; he had made his decision, and if the Admiral looked at him askance when he was introduced by name, then so be it.

They were ushered into the Admiral’s office by an obsequious young midshipman. The room was spacious with a large table in the middle upon which several charts were pinned. A number of officers milled about the room, enjoying cups of coffee that were being passed out by the Admiral’s manservant. As soon as their presence was announced the men snapped to attention, saluting. The Prince may not have held a formal military rank, but his status as a formidable commander was legendary.

“At ease,” Valory said. The officers moved to parade rest. “Admiral, well met. It has been some time.”

“Indeed, sir,” the Admiral replied, eyeing Valory’s companions. He recognized the Captain, but not the officer.

“May I present Captain Callum bar Samuel of the _Windjammer_ and Lord Arden bar Miran, son of the High Steward of Armathia?”

The Admiral masked his surprise well as he clasped forearms with the ‘lost son’ of High Steward Miran. Most of his officers, however, stared in obvious disbelief. “A pleasure,” he managed.

“Gentlemen, you know Admiral Edgar bar Julien. Will you introduce us to your men, Admiral, and then we can get started?”

“Of course. To my right is Captain Colton bar Jacob of the _Pioneer_ , Kythrian born and bred. To my left, my second-in-command: Captain Landon bar Tyler of the _Rhane_ – Lyrian, but we forgive him for it.” Landon snorted indignantly but smiled at the playful insult nevertheless, white teeth standing out against his dark complexion.

Edgar went on to introduce the Captain of the City Guard along with the three First Lieutenants in attendance, but Arden missed the names entirely as his eyes fell upon a startlingly familiar face. The Lieutenant towards the back of the room was staring openly at him, wearing an expression of horrified surprise. _Oh, no._

“You have all been briefed regarding the situation with the Westernese, I take it,” Valory said, drawing Arden’s attention back to the center of the room.

“Yes, although I can scarcely believe the tidings,” Edgar frowned. “We are not prepared for an attack on this scale. It is unprecedented.”

“That is doubtlessly why we seem to be such a ripe target,” Valory replied.

“But why now?” the Admiral asked. “Have you gotten any more information out of the Westernese Commodore?”

Valory shook his head. “There is still much we do not understand. I am hesitant to push too hard for information, however, else we run the risk of getting false confessions.”

“I got the impression that the Westernese were very green, sir,” Callum elaborated. “Some of the hands were quite young as well. The men we had over on the _Madesta_ also thought that some of the sailors were recently pressed.”

“It is peculiar that they sent such inexperienced men on this campaign,” the Admiral mused.

“I’m not sure I agree with that. The Commodore is Belenese; although his state has an adequate standing navy, eleven vessels are a lot – especially when crewed on short notice,” Arden reasoned.

“What does the Commodore have to say on the matter?” Captain Landon asked.

“Very little. Our interrogations ceased their intensity after we verified the information about the attack on Illen’s Arm. The Commodore will not part with the rest – not even under threat of returning to the board. We have to pry every word from his mouth,” Valory said.

“Wouldn’t a bit of prying be in order, then?” the Admiral suggested.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. My Empath believes that the Commodore does not know whether others are forthcoming. Dramor’s involvement is uncertain.”

“I would think that information about the Dramorian angle would be valuable enough to merit a proper interrogation,” Captain Colton put in.

“Rest assured gentlemen I am as eager as you are to figure out whether Dramor is using their Westernese subjects as a weapon against us. I do not use the board lightly, however. What is the point in torturing the man today for information we cannot utilize until well after the action at Illen’s Arm? I have hopes that time might loosen the man’s tongue.”

“Fair enough, my Lord,” Edgar nodded. “I suppose it would do all of us well to remember that the Westernese Commodore is still an officer of standing. It would not do to have him receive ill treatment at our hands.”

“So what then, we wait patiently for him to give up news of the plot against Oceana?” one of the Lieutenants scoffed.

“Even if we knew why the Westernese – and presumably Dramor – covet control of Kilcoran, what would we do about it? Who would we tell? We will need to make for Illen’s Arm immediately to avoid the razing of the town. We cannot spare a vessel to send word to Armathia before then. Even supposing this is an unprecedented Dramorian plot to rule supreme over the Eastern World’s shipping lanes, how would that alter the outcome of our conference tonight?” Arden countered.

“I suppose it would be wise of us to take counsel from one of Oceana’s Stewards,” Edgar said. “Lord Arden is correct: torturing the Westernese sailors until they spill every last drop of information is unnecessary. If the Commodore still refuses to talk after Illen’s Arm, however, I would advise a more aggressive course of action.”

“Of course,” Valory agreed. Arden did not doubt that he meant it. Valory would do what he had to do in the name of duty.

“Now tell me Captain Callum, will you be joining us at Illen’s Arm?” Edgar continued.

“Of course – what kind of Kilcoranian would I be if I didn’t?”

“I assume _Windjammer_ was not damaged in battle, then.”

“No sir, we were fortunate,” Callum replied.

“The _Madesta_ did not look as though she had sustained any damage, either,” Captain Landon said.

“Nothing permanent. Some of her standing rig was burnt, but as you saw, she made it here under full sail,” Callum replied.

“That must have been a remarkable victory.”

“ _Windjammer_ is a good vessel, sir, but the credit goes mostly to Prince Valory and his men,” Callum said.

“It does indeed – a veritable coup it must have been, to capture her without wrecking her. Do you suppose she is in good enough shape for us to crew her and send her to Kilcoran?” Edgar asked.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Precious irony that would be,” Landon said.

“Not to mention the tactical potential. The Westernese will be expecting her; if we approach in her lee we can take them by surprise,” Arden added.

“What other resources do we have?” Valory asked.

“There’s the _Rhane_ , Captain Landon’s command, although we have had a few deserters after the run-in with the sea-witches.”

“So that was no mere rumor, then.”

“It was not. They were beset by a pack of them in the dead of night,” Edgar said.

Landon’s expression was grave. “Were we not already on the lookout for creatures and the like, the outcome would have been far worse. It was terrible enough as it was. I have never seen so many witches at once.”

“It is a terrible sight,” Valory murmured in agreement. “How many do you think you will lose over it?”

“Casualties aside, perhaps another ten. Some of the greener recruits were right spooked.”

“Do you suppose we could make up for the loss with soldiers, or would that leave you shorthanded?” Valory wondered.

“I think we would manage, sir.”

“Do we have the soldiers to spare to pad our crews out, then?” Valory asked.

“I have enough men under my command to do so, although I would not wish to bleed Kalma’s fort dry either,” the Captain of the Guard said.

“Of course,” Valory agreed. “We would not sacrifice Kythria for Kilcoran’s sake. Captain Colton, what of your command?”

“The _Pioneer_ is a brig as well, sir. She is ready to depart on short notice; we were making ready for a two week patrol before we received your message,” Colton replied.

“That is all we have, I’m afraid,” Edgar said. “Not much against ten heavily armed vessels.”

“We could try to pick off the stragglers, better the odds,” Colton suggested.

“I don’t know that any of our vessels are nimble enough to do so. It would be a fine thing to take a few of them down during the night, of course, but we cannot let that be our only strategy.” Edgar shook his head. “With the winds as they are this time of year, however, we could intercept the bulk of the fleet before they reach Kilcoran.”

“If we managed to get a message to the fort at Illen’s Arm, we could have the entire Kilcoranian fleet out to meet us. I assume we would attempt the interception at night. If we could hold out until dawn . . .” Colton speculated.

“We will not hold out until dawn,” Arden spoke up.

“We can indeed, sir,” Colton countered.

“I disagree,” Arden replied.

“With all due respect Lord Arden, Captain Colton has logged many miles at sea,” Edgar chastised.

Valory felt Arden bristle at the insult. “I meant no slight to Captain Colton’s expertise, Admiral. I was merely stating fact.”

“I was unaware that Lord Steward Miran’s son had been bought a commission in the navy,” Colton retorted, toeing the line of insolence.

Arden strode to the table in the center of the room, ignoring the Captain entirely. “Here,” he began, taking a handful of Royals out of his pocket and dumping them onto the chart, “is our Westernese fleet.” He arranged the coins around the mouth of the inlet. “They will overnight here once all inbound and outbound traffic has settled. They picked this night far in advance. There will be no moon.”

“You’re assuming that—”

Arden cut Colton off. “We will anchor over here for the night, in Iron Harbor. It is deep enough for all of our vessels, and sheltered enough that any prying Westernese eyes will not see us.” He dropped four coins into a small protected harbor just around the bend from Illen’s Arm.

“That will allow the vessels to attack the fort head on at first light,” Edgar said disapprovingly.

“Yet Iron Harbor’s proximity to Illen’s Arm will allow us to send advance warning. Indeed, if our approach to Iron Harbor is made hugging the coastline, we can pull in undetected even in daylight. Our messages will reach Illen’s Arm by nightfall, and Bightton is only a few hours’ ride west from there. That will give Kilcoran the whole night to marshal their resources, during which we will not be struggling to hold off ten Westernese warships,” Arden said.

“That still leaves the fort open to attack,” Colton argued.

“We will enter the inlet at first light. Admiral Edgar will captain the _Madesta_ , I assume; he will lead the way. The Westernese will see her and think nothing of it, especially if most of her hands dress the part,” Arden continued, ignoring Colton’s objections. “ _Windjammer, Rhane,_ and _Pioneer_ can all follow in her wake. By the time the Westernese realize what is happening, they will be pinned in the harbor without hope for escape. Illen’s Arm will have a few vessels at the ready I’m sure – not enough to even the score, but enough to hold off until the Bightton fleet arrives.”

“It seems that Lord Arden has a keen mind for strategy,” Edgar said, impressed. He considered the coins that Arden had been pushing about the chart.

“But sir—” Colton protested.

“What’s more is, think of the advantage we will have once they realize that their flagship has been taken by the enemy! There will be chaos. We can immobilize half of their fleet. Admiral, you could probably be halfway to boarding one of their vessels before they even realized what was going on,” Arden continued. Valory felt an affectionate smile pull at his lips. As always, Arden argued passionately for his position, eyes bright with the thrill of outwitting several commissioned officers at their own game. _He could make Admiral himself, some day_.

“Do you suppose I would fit into that Commodore’s dress jacket?” Edgar mused. “It will be a terrible blow to them when they see an Oceanic Admiral wearing their leader’s uniform as a trophy.”

“You cannot be suggesting that we adopt the dress of those Westernese pigs,” Colton said incredulously.

“We are four against ten, and I do not doubt that the Westernese have their own fair share of surprises in store for us. Meeting them head-on outside the bay would be absolute folly; we might slow their progress, but we would be obliterated before reinforcements arrived from Bightton. I am no fan of martyrdom. If we play at this deception, we at least stand a chance,” Arden said.

“The fort will be sacked,” Colton argued.

“Attacked, yes; sacked, no. They will have twelve hours of advance notice to assemble their forces. Besides, look, the Westernese vessels will have to distribute themselves in the harbor like this.” Arden shuffled some coins around. “That leaves little room for maneuvers. This arrangement will be vulnerable to attack from any vessels moored up on the southern side of the harbor. They permit this vulnerability because they think that the vessels will be manned with skeleton crews – if at all. Imagine their surprise when they realize that all of the Kilcoranian vessels are armed and ready for battle.”

“You make a persuasive argument, my Lord,” the Admiral said. “If we trap them in the harbor and Illen’s Arm is made ready, we can hammer them from both sides.”

“That is what my Lord Prince Valory said he wished to do. This strategy will make it so.”

“It hinges on our ability to reach Iron Harbor on the fourteenth in absolute secrecy,” Landon pointed out.

“Can it be done? How quickly can we muster men and supplies?” Valory asked.

“We can sail on the tide the day after tomorrow,” Landon replied. “At least, the _Rhane_ will be ready. I assume that the soldiers of the City Guard will find that to be adequate time to prepare.”

“More than enough,” the Captain of the Guard replied.

“Will you be able to press a crew for the _Madesta_ in time?” Valory asked.

“Absolutely,” Edgar assured him.

“And Captain Colton has already assured us that his vessel is ready – although I would like to know whether he agrees with our plans as they are.”

“I am still hesitant, my Lord,” Colton admitted, glancing sideways at Arden.

“Are you hesitant because you disagree with my assessment of the situation, or because you believe me to be some sort of armchair warrior?” Arden asked pointedly.

“Lord Arden, surely—” Edgar mollified.

“Perhaps I might breathe more easily if I knew why we are so quick to follow the suggestions of a man who has been missing and presumed dead for the better part of my life,” Colton replied. The Admiral made a choked noise of embarrassment. The rest of the officers leaned in, eager to hear the reply.

“The answer is simple, Captain: you will follow my suggestions because you know they will work. Surely you are not so proud a man as to be upset that you did not think of them yourself. As to where I have been — I have sailed with Captain Callum for over a decade, now.”

“Why not the navy, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?” Landon questioned, curious.

“Too good for military service?” Colton snapped.

“Not at all,” Arden said. “My reasons for leaving Armathia are my own, but I assure you that I will be honored to fight alongside all of you at Illen’s Arm. Should I one day be so fortunate as to find myself with a commission, I would also be honored to serve with you.”

Arden’s words had a humbling effect on those present. Colton still seemed suspicious, but finally relented. “Forgive me for the insult.”

“None meant, I’m sure.”

Colton smiled sharply. “You are too kind, Lord Arden; you know it was meant. I retract it. Apologies.”

“Accepted, then. I appreciate your candor.”

“Please accept my apology as well, Lord Arden – I encourage my men to challenge me, often forgetting how others might perceive such behavior,” Edgar said, shooting a frustrated look at his subordinate.

Arden laughed. “You know my House, Admiral. We are bred to deliver unswerving, brutal honesty – to Kings, no less. It is something to which I am well accustomed.”

“You will be happy to know that Lord Arden does not mince words either,” Valory said wryly. “I trust we are squared away now, Captain Colton.”

“Yes, my Lord. I will do as Admiral Edgar commands. If his command be to carry out Lord Arden’s orders, it will be done.”

The room relaxed at Colton’s words. “Then sirs, can we begin to discuss the number of soldiers each vessel with require? I have many arrangements to make,” the Captain of the Guard asked.

“Most will go to the _Madesta_ ,” Edgar said. “She will run with a full crew, but as the largest of the vessels and the first to make contact with the Western fleet, she will need to be well manned.”

“She can carry reinforcements for the fort at Illen’s Arm as well,” Landon remarked, “so long as we have the men to spare.”

“We will want the fort to be full of fighting men – especially those with a good hand at the catapults. We cannot afford to have one of our vessels go under from friendly fire,” Arden agreed.

“Not to mention that the more Kythrian soldiers we place at the ramparts, the less likely it is that the _Madesta_ will be mistaken for a target,” Colton muttered.

“Fair point,” Arden conceded.

“We can set them ashore in Iron Harbor with specific instructions,” Edgar said. “And Captain, we would appreciate it if you could part with some Elementalists.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” the Captain of the Guard promised.

“Captain Callum, how many men do you need?” Edgar asked.

“We have ten aboard, sir – we could hold perhaps ten more, though it is not necessary,” he replied.

“Any enchantments among your crew?”

“Just J—Lord Arden here. And Prince Valory’s men, of course.”

“My Lord has an Elemental talent, does he not?” Edgar asked

“Telekinesis,” Valory replied. Those who weren’t aware of the Prince’s talent made soft noises of approval and interest.

“Rumor has it you are very strong, sir,” one of the Lieutenants said.

“Rumor is correct,” Valory shrugged. “My unit also boasts an Empath and a Healer.”

“I assume you will be joining us on the _Madesta_ , my Lord,” Edgar said. Arden looked up sharply.

“To the contrary, I will remain aboard _Windjammer_ ,” Valory replied, not missing the way Arden’s brow eased at his words. “We have been sailing with Callum and his crew for over a month, now – I wouldn’t want to upset the balance we have attained.”

“Captain Callum counted you and your men amongst his common crew, then,” Edgar said, surprised.

“Yes, and I believe his First Officer gets a perverse amount of pleasure out of that,” Valory smiled, meeting Arden’s eyes.

Edgar let out a chuff of laughter. “Well I suppose that can’t be helped, my Lord. Now tell me Captain Callum, how do your men fight?”

The conversation about arms and supplies continued for another hour during which strategy was fine-tuned and soldiers were divided up amongst the four vessels. Once it became clear that no further progress would be made – and that the afternoon was growing long – Edgar dismissed his officers. All had their fair share of duties to attend to if the mission to save Illen’s Arm was to be successful.

Most of the officers had scattered by the time Callum obtained the provisioning lists from the Captain of the Guard. He handed them over to Arden with little ceremony. “That’ll be for Ehrin to oversee; I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to know she’s to be feeding ten more mouths for the duration of the journey to Iron Harbor.”

Arden grinned. “I’m sure. Seeing as how she owes me a favor, however, I think I’ll probably be able to deliver the news to her with impunity.”

“And lucky you are, lad. Are you headed back to the _Windjammer_ with the Prince?”

“After he finishes his chinwag with the Admiral, yes. Would you like me to draw up a rotation for shore leave once I’m back?”

“Yes, best be getting that done soon. The men will want to go to the church and have a drink or two before shipping out. Just see that they know that this isn’t the time for tardiness or slipshod work,” Callum replied.

“You’re off to prize court, then?”

“It convenes in just a few minutes; I’ve got to get going.”

“Good luck. I’ll see you back aboard, sir.”

“’Till then,” Callum responded, disappearing from the room.

Arden looked up to see that Valory and Edgar were still engaged in an intense conversation. Shuffling his papers he took one last look at the chart in the center of the table before leaving to wait for the Prince in the hallway. He immediately regretted his decision to do so; the Lieutenant from the back of the room – the one whose face had looked so familiar – was leaning against the wall next to the doorway. Arden sighed. He had hoped to avoid this conversation.

“Do you still go by Jack, then, or was that a one off?” the Lieutenant asked.

Arden shook his head. “It wasn’t a one off; I went by Jack for over a decade.”

“And now?”

“I can’t deny my own name whilst in the service of Prince Valory. I wasn’t having fun at your expense – my own crew only recently learned who my father is.”

The Lieutenant pushed himself away from the wall and advanced towards Arden.  “It has been a while since _Windjammer_ was in Kythria.”

“I hadn’t thought you would be keeping track,” Arden said.

“I was under the impression we got on rather well last time – or was I mistaken?”

“Lieutenant—” At the affronted look on the other man’s face, he quickly added, “Gavin. That’s not what I meant.” Gavin had spoken the truth: they had gotten along smashingly the last time they had seen one another. That was, of course, the _only_ time they had seen one another; Arden was accustomed to the way things were between sailors, and hadn’t returned to the same tavern the next night.

“I see. Well, rest assured I would not have treated you as a stranger had you sought me out the next day. I like to think I have better manners than that. I would not have turned you away, either, even though I only knew you as Jack the sailor, and not Lord Arden bar Miran.”

“That is uniquely courteous of you.”

“Don’t I know it?” Gavin asked, mouth twisting. “I see no point in hiding it, nor any shame in enjoying the company of a friend more than once. I had thought we might have that in common, though from the look on your face I think I might have overstepped my mark.”

“Ah.” Arden had long known that, amongst the backdrop of soldiers and sailors who sought relief with one another, stood others who preferred more permanent arrangements. Matelots weren’t uncommon in his profession, but he had long avoided the sort of men who were given to such commitments. How could he share a life with a man he couldn’t give his true name? At the same time, Arden couldn’t help but find the circumstances unfortunate; a few months earlier he would have jumped at the chance to spend more time with the fine-featured Lieutenant.

“I see I’m not completely wrong, then,” Gavin smiled, eyes twinkling. He took another step towards Arden. “I’m not blind, Jack – if I can still call you Jack, that is – I can see you’re not indifferent.”

“No, not indifferent, but this is an inadvisable avenue for me to pursue right now,” Arden admitted.

“I can respect not wanting to mix business with pleasure,” Gavin sighed. “You’ll have to forgive me for trying. I’m the Admiral’s First; not much escapes his watch, so I’ve been short on company of late.”

Arden found that difficult to believe. The man was strikingly handsome – caramel colored skin and sea-green eyes an uncommon combination. He doubted Gavin lacked for company, Edgar’s watchful eye or no. “You might get a Captaincy out of this action,” he said, aching to change the subject.

“If all goes well and we bring the _Madesta_ back to Kalma as our own, I very well might. Until then I suppose I’ll have to continue to skulk around with men from merchant crews,” he said, eyes boring into Arden’s own.

The tense moment of silence was broken by Valory’s appearance at Arden’s shoulder. “Alright, shall we? Oh – Lieutenant Gavin, isn’t it?” he asked, trying to decipher the entertaining expression on Arden’s face.

“Yes, my Lord. I was just taking my leave. Jack, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He bowed to both of them before disappearing around the corner, back on his way to the officer’s quarters. Arden grit his teeth. Valory must have heard the invitation for what it was; the Lieutenant’s tone of voice had left no room for misinterpretation. He turned away and started up the hallway, mumbling something about getting back to the boat.

“Arden, wait,” Valory said.

Arden’s feet stilled. “Yes, my Lord?”

Valory observed Arden’s discomfiture for a moment: the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the rigidity of his frame. Even if the Lieutenant’s words hadn’t been so obvious, Arden’s unease spoke volumes. Valory fought with himself for a moment, trying to decide how to put what he wanted to say. On one hand he found himself feeling incredibly, irrationally jealous of the Lieutenant; he was tempted to fight to lay claim to Arden’s affections then and there. On the other hand, it was far wiser avoid giving himself away.

“I have been traveling around Oceana – and the rest of the Eastern World – for nigh on fifty years. I know that plenty of soldiers and sailors share company with one another when out on assignment. There is no shame in it. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I am, as you are aware, a sailor myself.”

“And you know that I would not think less of you for having such proclivities – no matter what caste you were born to?” Valory held his stare.

“If the Lieutenant is to believed, it would seem that you are more lenient than the Admiral.”

“I am not in any position to judge the company that others decide to keep,” Valory murmured. He continued to meet Arden’s eyes, unblinking, something significant about the set to his brow and – _oh,_ Arden thought. _Is he trying to tell me something?_

The very idea that Valory might have been aiming a subtle hint at him made the bottom drop out of his stomach. Arden had indulged his attraction for the Prince solely because the thought of it coming to fruition was ridiculous: a political impossibility. Yet if the opportunity arose, could he turn away from what would be offered?

He swallowed hard. They were standing far too close – nearly chest-to-chest – but his mind’s protests seemed sluggish and dim. He watched, enthralled, as Valory’s pale blue stare slipped, flicking downward to glance at his lips. Perhaps Valory was more than simply _lenient_ regarding the nature of Arden’s desires.

“Ah, my Lords – I am glad to see you have not yet left,” Captain Landon said, turning the corner out of Edgar’s office.

“Yes Captain?” Valory asked, voice hoarse. He turned away from Arden to regard the officer.

“I know that you have preparations to make for our journey to Kilcoran, but some of the other officers have decided to share a meal and a drink at one of our favored establishments this evening. We figure that it might give us a chance to discuss any last-minute details that were missed during our conference, and . . . well to tell you the truth, sirs, the tavern we frequent has some of the best spiced meat patties you’ll ever taste.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Captain. Where is it located?” Valory asked.

“It’s called the Blue Cap; it’s one of the few respectable taverns facing out towards the docks. You won’t be able to miss it. Can we count on your company?”

Valory glanced at Arden. “We’ll have to see what manner of work is cut out for us once we return to the _Windjammer_. If it is within our power, however, we will be there.”

“Of course, sirs. Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties any longer; hopefully we will meet again later tonight,” Landon said, saluting.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Valory said, dismissing the officer with a nod.

“We should get going as well. As you said, there is much to do,” Arden began before Landon had even rounded the corner.

“Yes, of course,” Valory agreed. He took a few steps before realizing that Arden wasn’t following him; the man seemed rooted in place where he stood, lost in thought. “Arden?”

“My Lord.” He hesitated. “I want to assure you that my behavior on the forthcoming mission will remain strictly professional – especially where our fellows are concerned.”

“You don’t have to assure me anything,” Valory replied. “You are my _friend_ , Arden. We have spent nearly every waking moment together for the past six weeks. My confidence in your character aside, I am hardly blind. I had my suspicions.”

Arden frowned. “I don’t understand. If you had given this thought, then. . .” he found he couldn’t give voice to what he wanted to say. _What possible motives could he have, if he’s not going to claim willful blindness?_

_If he was interested, he would have propositioned me already._

“Arden,” Valory sighed, features softening.

_Unless . . ._

“Prince Valory,” the Admiral interrupted, appearing in the doorway of his office, “I thought I had heard your voice. Would you mind if I borrowed another few minutes of your time? I have another strategic matter upon which I would appreciate your input. My apologies for the interruption, Lord Arden.”

“Of course, Admiral,” Valory said before turning back to Arden and murmuring, “You say you do not understand, but you are no one’s fool. I can see the questions you want to ask written plainly on your face. Think on them. Let me know when you find the answers. I will see you back at the boat.”

Arden was left alone in the hall with his thoughts.

…

_As time passed he took to keeping his eyes shut. Opening them made no difference; the inky blue-blackness still held him. The lack of light left him feeling disoriented and unable to mark the passage of time. He didn’t know whether it had been hours or years._

_Occasionally he would hear the whispering hisses, often forming the syllables of his name. He would open his eyes then, goose bumps rising up on his arms and legs. The darkness would shimmer, ripples of silver flickering around him. Sometimes he swore he saw snatches of images within these ripples. If he hadn’t been so terrified he would have marveled at them. Visions within visions: who would have thought it possible? This vision, all told, was a mystery to him. The only thing he knew was that someone or something else was there, just on the other side of every silver shimmer. Every time he called out, however, voice hoarse with disuse, the whispers would stop. He would be left alone in the cold, pressing dark once more._

_Sometime later – he didn’t know how long – he realized that the quality of the darkness had changed. Touching his face, he knew that his eyes were still closed; the color behind his lids was the same blood red one sees when shutting one’s eyes against the light of the sun. He cracked them open a bit, peering through his lashes. The light was nearly blinding in its brightness. At first he dared to hope that his captivity was over – that his mind was free and he was awake. A silver shimmer in the landscape warned him otherwise. He was witnessing yet another vision._

_A long road ran before him, the path worn smooth from many long years of travel. The ground was dry and cracked; the kind of arid dirt that supported little life. He could see the sun overhead but did not feel its heat, could see the ground moving beneath his feet but knew he was not walking. The road before him slowly sloped down into a valley surrounded by a dry riverbed. In the distance, stone walls rose up from the parched earth. He knew it to be a great city, strikingly familiar, though he was certain he had never laid eyes upon it before. He would have remembered a place like this._

_The four great outer walls of the city were canted inward, their smooth facades appearing as if carved from the bedrock of the desert itself. Gates were set into the wall where the road ended. They were many stories taller than a man and wrought of thick, twisted black metal. Beyond the walls lay the city itself, though all that he could see of it were the steep points of fortified towers creeping skyward. The crown of a temple stood above the rest, arching formidably in the center of the massive city complex. Even from this distance he could see how elaborate it was, ancient symbols inlaid with polished precious metals that caught the sunlight and shone blinding bright. He could not understand why a place so lovely, so devotedly crafted, would fill the pit of his stomach with such gnawing dread._

_The image began to move – to tremble – and while at first he thought that it was slipping away, he soon realized that the tremor was coming from the city itself. Pulsing waves vibrated throughout the surrounding land. He backpedaled when he saw the first cracks begin to form in the soil before him. These cracks grew wider and deeper until a great chasm opened up. The jagged edges of the fissure extended all the way to the great city gates._

_Gusts of air blew up from the depths of the chasm, the damp cold raking along his skin. He sensed the movement of the shadows in the deep before he saw them, and knew that he should turn and run rather than satisfy his curiosity. It was then that he realized that he was not in control of this vision; cold silver shimmers prevented him from looking away. The shadowy pit of the chasm began to twitch as figures clawed their way up from the deep. The stench of wet rot assailed his senses as the ascending beings emerged into the light of day. Some were shaped like men, others anything but. Their forms were all twisted and terrible – parodies of the creatures they once were._

_Any attempt to steel himself met with failure. He stared at the flood of deformed creatures pouring out of the chasm in abject terror. He dared not lift his eyes to the city beyond for fear of what he might witness. Although he knew that struggling was futile, he still wrestled for mastery of the vision, mind screaming with the effort of trying to regain control of muscle and sinew. He wanted to be as far as possible from this Gods-forsaken place._

_In the distance, the city gates swung open. Silver rippled before him, obscuring his view of the proceedings. Something was happening, yes, that much he could see – something that prevented the foul beings pouring from the chasm from noticing his presence. Darkness pulled at the corners of his eyes. The sun was setting – or perhaps the vision itself was beginning to wane. Deep cold bore down upon his shoulders once more. The vision faded to black. He did not know whether or not to feel grateful._

_He shut his eyes. The whispers began again. By now he was accustomed to them; they had long since ceased to frighten him. He could make out syllables but not words, interspersed with the clicks and hisses of some unknown being._

_“Release me,” he demanded, voice hoarse with disuse. “I can hear you. I know you’re there. Release me.”_

_Hushed laughter slid across his skin. “Ssssssss—”_

_The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He opened his eyes. Was he imagining things, or did the unwavering blackness before him hold a tinge of silver here, and a shimmer over there?_

_“Are you trying to name me?” he asked, drawing himself up tall. “I heard you before. You know me by name – hide not behind this shroud of darkness!”_

_The hisses and clicks grew louder, more defined. No longer merely the sibilance of vision and fantasy, he finally knew these sounds for what they were. He had heard them before._

_Cold pressed upon the nape of his neck. His whole body stiffened. Although he tried to turn and see what stood behind him, he found himself immobilized. He clenched his jaw, hardening his countenance. He would not allow that_ thing _to see his weakness._

_“Sss’ss . . .” the creature hissed._

_He felt the pressure at the back of his neck grow. “Release me,” he growled, fighting to keep the nervous hitch out of his voice._

_“Tssss. That is not your demand to make.”_

_“Release me.”_

_“You are His. You are mine. You are mine until He chooses to ssspeak,” the creature breathed._

_“Speak not in these damned riddles,” he snarled._

_“You are mine until He decides it is time; mine to keep until He claims you or chooses to dessstroy you.”_

_“Who is ‘He’? Who are you?”_

_“You know me. You know me, and I know you – because one of yours knows me. Soon all of you will.”_

_“And who, exactly, will we be getting the pleasure to know?” he asked, voice far calmer than he felt._

_“Shan’kor,” the creature whispered._

_“Perhaps your fame does not extend so far as you had thought. I know no one by that name.” He did not even attempt its pronunciation. The answering laughter made him shiver._

_“Do you not? But I am a King, too.”_

_The hold on his neck abruptly released, and he spun to behold his captor. What he saw was no more than he had expected, yet it was no less terrible for the anticipation._

_The stink of rot and fish overwhelmed his senses as the figure drew up tall before him, mottled translucent flesh glowing an eerie silver-blue in the dark. Its thick, powerfully muscled tail held it upright before him – far taller than he was. Inky black veins were faintly visible through the gelatinous skin of the torso, branching towards strong arms and into twisted webbed hands. Sharp talons extended from appendages that would have been called fingers were they on a man._

_His eyes were drawn upward to the head where a twisted crown of writhing blue-black tentacles took the place of hair. The suckers twitched and pulsed as though they longed to bite into flesh. Colorless lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing rows upon rows of jagged, pearlescent teeth. A ridged, flattened nose sat below the most horrifying feature – two milky, fish-like eyes, empty and soulless._

_“You are the Sea-Witch King,” he stuttered, bile rising in his throat._

_“You know me. You will all know me. You will know me and you will know Him. He will have us all.”_

_With those words another silver shimmer passed between them, obscuring the vicious creature from view. When the darkness returned, he realized that the Sea-Witch King had disappeared. For a brief moment he dared to hope that he would be returned to his body again – but no. He was left alone in the blue-black pressing cold._

…

Félix looked up as the Captain’s daughter slid down into the hold with his evening meal. She seemed harried, dark hair escaping its usual neat plait, face reddened with exertion. As she drew nearer with the tray, he noted that baking flour was smeared across one of her cheeks.

Over the course of his imprisonment, Félix found that his earliest opinions of her were contradicted by her pretty smile and sweet demeanor. She wasn’t a nasty wench all of the time, no – only when provoked. He suppressed the urge to rub a hand over the fading bruises that dotted his jaw. He had never met a woman who could hit a man as well as she could feed him.

The woman had taken to dropping the tray down in front of him and leaving him to eat his meal in peace several days earlier; it had resulted in a truce of sorts in which he would pick at the meal and she wouldn’t attempt any conversation. Tonight, however, she flopped down next to him and reached for the tray herself. He noticed that it was loaded down with twice his usual ration. He frowned.

Ehrin dunked a piece of cornbread into the hearty stew she had made. She chewed with narrowed eyes before finally nodding with approval. “It’s a new recipe – not bad,” she said. “I got it from the butcher’s wife on Kythria; it uses some spices from the West. Is it anything like what you get at home?” Félix turned his face away from her, choosing to stare instead at the lantern. Ehrin shrugged, dipping her cornbread again. “Fine, stay angry with me. I don’t give a drake’s hide anymore. Just don’t kick the tray into the bilge before I’ve had my supper.”

“Hm.”

“Yeh, fine – you don’t enjoy my company any more than I enjoy yours – I know. On the other hand, there are ten soldiers mucking up my salon and demanding more rum rations. Illen knows they don’t need any more liquor; the grog went right to their heads. That, or they’re using it as an excuse to act like slobbering dogs.” Ehrin thought she saw the corners of Félix’s mouth twitch up, and was encouraged to continue. “The Lieutenant of their squadron is a handsy one. I told him outright that I’m no serving wench and won’t have him treating me as one aboard my own vessel, but–” she sighed.

“You cannot use your magic on him?” Félix asked.

Ehrin nearly choked on her stew with surprise. The Commodore had never addressed her directly in all of the time she had been bringing him his meals. “My magic?” she echoed, confused. “Oh, my _enchantment_ , you mean. No, I don’t have one.”

“I thought all of you Oceanic were supposed to have them,” he said, finally turning to take a look at the steaming bowl of stew set before him. His stomach rumbled.

“They’re common, yeh, but not everyone has one. Even those who do aren’t always like Prince Valory or J—Lord Arden.”

“Oh?” Félix asked, finally giving into temptation and nibbling on a piece of cornbread. It was delicious.

“They’re exceptionally strong, is all. I mean, you can tell. The kind of strength it takes to power an enchantment like theirs is obvious.”

“Hm.”

“Are you grunting at me because you don’t care, or are you grunting because you don’t understand what I’m talking about, and are too proud to admit it?”

The corners of Félix’s mouth turned up again. “You have a sharp tongue.”

“I think it silly to beat around bushes.”

Félix dipped another morsel of bread into the stew. “Then explain yourself – how is it so obvious that your Prince possesses powerful magic?”

“They say that a person with a strong enchantment has to be made to withstand the strain of using it. That kind of strength helps them withstand other things, like illness and fatigue and the wearing of the years.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

Ehrin couldn’t help but think he was mocking her from the tone of voice he used. She frowned. “Your skepticism would be understandable if the nature of enchantments weren’t so easily proven.”

“Hm. Your Lord Arden showed me his fire magic.”

“Did he? He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Hm.”

“Prince Valory—”

“Has mind-magic. Yes. I was told.”

“We call their kind Elementalists. Prince Valory is a kind of Elementalist – a telekinetic. It’s the most powerful kind. The Master Elementalist is a telekinetic as well, although I’m told that he is even more powerful than the Prince,” Ehrin explained.

“One of your Oceanic mountain-movers?” Félix asked mockingly.

“I don’t know the extent of his power. It’s considered impolite to ask someone about their enchantment directly – they’re personal.”

“Hm.”

“Although I’m sure Prince Valory would tell you more about his, if you were curious.”

“And have you spoken so candidly with your Prince about such things?” Félix asked.

“Not about his enchantment, no. Prince Valory is . . . well, he is very gifted, like I said. I wouldn’t even begin to understand what it’s like. It boggles my mind just to know that he’s almost seventy.”

“He is _what_?” Félix asked, certain that he had misheard. His Oceanic was still imperfect, after all.

“He is sixty-seven years old,” Ehrin elaborated.

“That is impossible.”

“I told you that strong enchantments made their bearer better able to survive the passage of time, did I not? Yes, he is sixty-seven.”

“And your Lord Arden?”

“Forty-four. Older than he looks, isn’t he? But that’s the nature of enchantments,” Ehrin said with a wave of her hand.

“Hm,” Félix grunted, abandoning the pretense of picking at his food and turning his attention to the stew in earnest. Eating would at least give him a few moments to process the words of the Oceanic woman sitting before him.

He wondered briefly whether or not they were conspiring to feed him inaccurate information so that he would return to Belen with exaggerated notions of Oceana’s strength. Though he wasn’t willing to discount that possibility entirely, the memory of the battle stuck in his mind. There were other explanations for how all four of his dead eyes had come apart. There were other explanations for how his second officer had combusted. None of those explanations were particularly plausible. He knew from overhearing idle gossip that his beloved _Madesta_ had been turned into an Oceanic warship. If that was the case, Lord Arden’s story about the shackles would be the only way to explain her seaworthy condition.

Félix did not know what to believe. The dogs had strapped him to the board, yes – and he was not going to forget that anytime soon – but he knew that the Prince would have suffered far worse treatment in Belenese hands. A part of him was convinced that the worst awaited him in the Oceanic capital. A growing voice in his head, however, wondered why they were feeding him so well; he received the same fare that the rest of the crew ate. He wondered why they spoke candidly with him, why he was never beaten or bent over a barrel. He wondered why – and how – his coxswain had been so carefully tended. The man had bid him a fond goodbye in Kalma before being transported to the fort to await his ransom.

Thinking about the men who had miraculously survived their grave injuries took his mind away from his first officer. He forced down the thick grief that swelled within him at the thought; he refused to let it get the better of him in front of the Oceanic – especially this Oceanic, the one who had taken the life of his friend.

Yet the others had survived, and were being readied for ransom: a turn of events he struggled to comprehend. In Belen, prisoners of war were often executed. It was simply the way of things: he had strapped many a man to the board and sent many a man to the hangman in his time as Commodore. It wasn’t something he enjoyed, but he knew the consequences for shirking his duty. He would not want his Lord to think him soft. He never would have imagined things to be different in the East.

He could not reconcile all that he had learned of Oceana from a lifetime of study with the things he was seeing and hearing. He knew that it was not unheard of for a prisoner to begin to sympathize with his captor – it was a common wartime survival mechanism. Félix knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, however, that any sympathy with his Oceanic captors would be harshly punished upon his arrival home – _if_ he ever saw his home again.

The Lord of Belen did not look lightly upon betrayal; nor would his Dramorian overseers. It would be ironic if he were to suffer worse punishment at the hands of his countrymen than at the hands of his captors. Félix shook his head. It would not do to think such things, and yet—

“I have been taught much about the ways of the Oceanic people,” he said, breaking the long silence.

Ehrin peered over the rim of her mug at him. “Such as?”

“I was taught that you worshipped ancient Gods whose power waned long ago.”

“Ancient they may be, but just because they don’t walk the Eastern World with us any longer doesn’t mean they aren’t watching.”

“I was also taught that the powers they bestowed were no more than myth.”

“Well we know that’s not the case. Is that what the Westernese teach each other?”

“It is what they teach in Dramor as well.”

Ehrin laughed at the absurdity of the statement. “Oh come on, you can’t believe that. Just look at any Dramorian – paler than a baby’s bottom. If that’s not because of Arrar’s Blessing, I don’t know what is.”

Félix shrugged. “It is how they are made, just as you are made with brown eyes.”

“Not bloody likely, I say. What Dramorians have you met that speak so ungratefully of Arrar’s Gift?”

“Are you a worshipper of Arrar, then, to defend him so?” Félix asked, deflecting her question.

“Of course not; but I would never doubt his existence, just as I would never doubt Oreler’s. Now, if I stopped worshipping Illen or Fángon or Ranael . . . well, that would be unthinkable. They saved Oceana and the rest of the Eastern World during the Banishment, and they continue to watch over us. I wouldn’t want their power to wane for my lack of devotion.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t the Westernese have any Gods?” Ehrin asked.

“No.”

“You must believe that they exist, though,” she pressed.

“I do not believe that they are gods.”

“Then why not worship? Why not show how grateful you are to Fángon for keeping the locker, or to Ranael for carrying your ship safely across the water?” Ehrin asked.

“Why worship a god who has never given anything to my people?”

“Why would the Gods give anything to a people who were too selfish to bow their heads in worship?” she retorted.

“Your so-called ‘gods’ have allowed my people to live in a war-torn land for two thousand years. We were not given a hero-king to unite our states at the beginning of this age. Your gods united your people and showered you with magical gifts. They gave us nothing. I will never bow my head to them,” Félix spat.

“That’s your loss, then,” Ehrin shrugged.

Félix downed the last of his grog in a long draught, dropping the mug back onto the tray with a clatter. Ehrin set about cutting a pastry in half. She picked up her half before pushing the plate towards him. He studied her imperturbable expression with some amount of surprise. “Why are you kind?”

“What?”

“Why are you kind? I insult your gods, and you sit here and offer me a cake.”

“I’m not going to starve you just because you don’t agree with me,” Ehrin shrugged. “I daresay Illen wouldn’t condone that kind of behavior – nor would Da. You’re a man, not a beast. We may not be on the same side of things, but that doesn’t make you evil.”

“I have long thought Oceana evil,” he said.

“Then you’re wrong, and I’m not going to stoop so low as to start playing a game of petty insults and call you evil just because you leveled the slight at me.”

“How do you know that I am not? Is that not what your King tells you? He must tell you that your enemies are an evil people,” Félix said, confused.

“That would be a lie though, wouldn’t it?” She paused staring into her bowl. Félix was struck by how very sad she looked. “I suppose demons are not the only ones capable of doing evil, though. I think you and your people are doing an evil thing by attacking Illen’s Arm when we’ve done naught to provoke it. I hate you a bit for it, but I still do not believe you to be some sort of devil.”

“Then perhaps that is naïve of you.”

“Perhaps I am a better judge of character than you think.”

“I thought you said that you do not have god-magic.”

Ehrin snorted. “Haven’t you ever heard of woman’s intuition? I don’t need an enchantment for that. I doubt you’re the stone-cold bastard you’re pretending to be. As it turns out, so does Gabriel.”

“The boy?”

“He thinks you have a kind heart somewhere underneath all of that spitting and snarling,” she replied.

“Hm.”

“Gabriel is an Empath. He can see the hearts of others.”

“And what did he see, when he looked at mine?”

Ehrin shrugged. “The heart of a man, no more – no less. So you’ll have to forgive me for not treating you as I would treat a murderer or a scoundrel, because I don’t think you are either.”

“Say you, to the man who spat on you at first sight.”

“I punched you in the jaw. I think we’re square.”

Félix stared at her for a moment, surprised. He felt another smile tugging at the corners of his lips and fought it resolutely. The words, however, came out before he could stop them. “And you have very good form, for—”

“Commodore, if you say ‘for a woman’ so help me Gods I will hit you again.”

He lost the battle against the smile this time. “Yes, madam.”

“My name is Ehrin. Feel free to use it, if we’re finally past your phase of kicking all of my culinary experiments into the bilge.”

“Hm. Ehrin. I am Félix.”

“Félix,” she said, considering the difference in pronunciation that made a fairly common Oceanic name sound foreign. “Well, I’m glad my cutlery escaped unscathed this time. I was afraid I’d have to take my meal back up into the salon with those buffoons.”

“Ah, yes – the soldiers. Soldiers are the same no matter where you go, are they not? Will they bother you more?” He didn’t understand why he asked. If he were honest with himself, he was even annoyed that he cared.

Ehrin smiled wolfishly. “Oh, I doubt it. The last time the Lieutenant pinched my arse I told him that if he did it again, I’d be feeding him his own bollocks for breakfast tomorrow.”

Félix couldn’t help himself; he laughed. The sound was foreign to his own ears – when was the last time he had laughed? Ehrin smiled triumphantly, but at least had the good grace to duck her head and hide it. She knew better than to confront him with evidence of his own good humor.

With that, Ehrin swept up the detritus of their meal and headed out of the hold, bidding him a good night.

…

“Anything interesting going on?” Arden asked as Valory approached, returning from his deck walk.

“Imran is on bow watch. A few of the Kythrian soldiers are making noise about his Dramorian origins.”

“That seems unwise of them.”

“I told them as much. I also informed Imran that we need as many pairs of hands as we can get, and it would be best if we could reach Kilcoran without maiming any of them.”

Arden stifled a laugh. “That bad?”

“It was a near thing,” Valory said, a small smile quirking his lips.

“How’s she looking?” Arden nodded towards the jib halyard; he rather suspected that it needed to be replaced, but they hadn’t had any time in Kalma to put up a new one.

“A bit frayed, but I think it’ll hold.”

“And below?”

“Chaotic. Ehrin seems frustrated with the soldiers, particularly that red-haired one who keeps ‘accidentally’ knocking into her in the companionways.”

Arden snorted. “She can handle him. I heard her offer to feed him his own bollocks for breakfast. Did you get into the hold as well?”

“ _Windjammer_ is holding tight; no leaks as far as I can see. I got a particularly filthy glare from the Commodore when I was down there, but the rest of my deck walk was unremarkable.  I did run into Callum; he said he’d do the dead-reckoning himself this hour, and that you should stay on the helm.”

“All good news then,” Arden sighed, content, rubbing a hand along one of the spokes on _Windjammer_ ’s wheel. At their current point of sail he didn’t have to work very hard to keep her down; he was perched on top of the deck box that held the ship’s steering gear, holding course with a hand and a foot. He was in his element.

“Yes, though even Callum admits that he is not yet sure whether we will make it to Iron Harbor in time,” Valory said, hip bumping up against the side of the binnacle.

“Not much we can do about that,” Arden replied.

Valory regarded him carefully. “Isn’t there?”

Arden furrowed his brow. “Are you speaking about my enchantment? I’m not _that_ strong, Val.”

“I know you’ve given us a few surreptitious puffs of air when we’ve needed it most. The others still don’t know you’re more than a firestarter, do they?”

“They don’t – mostly because my enchantment is not useful for much else,” he demurred.

“We both know that’s not the case. I saw how _Windjammer_ turned when we were squaring off against the _Madesta_. There was no way we could have come around so fast without a shift in the wind – or a little help.”

Arden shrugged. “Alright – so maybe I _do_ give us a little lift here and there when we need it. It’s not something I can sustain over time, though, and certainly not enough to move a fleet of four.”

“What if we could figure out how to use my enchantment to amplify yours?” Valory suggested.

“You would be exhausted by the time we reached Iron Harbor,” Arden pointed out.

“Better than not getting there at all.”

Arden gave in, placing his free hand on Valory’s shoulder. It wasn’t worth the argument. His thumb and forefinger landed inside the Prince’s open collar, sliding over the bare skin of neck and collarbone. He felt Valory’s slow intake of breath. “Are you ready?” he asked. “I’m operating under the assumption that contact has something to do with it, of course.”

“That seems as good an assumption as any. Go ahead, I’m prepared.”

Arden focused his talent, pulling a gust of wind towards them. He watched the cattails ripple on the surface of the water before them, warning that the puff was coming. The lift was noticeable, but nothing unusual; he didn’t feel the same discharge of power he had experienced when Valory had amplified his enchantment before. After a few moments of sustaining the increased wind speed – _Windjammer_ had picked up perhaps a knot in that time – he felt himself beginning to tire.

“Nothing,” Arden murmured.

“Nothing? No amplification, perhaps, but I would hardly call this ‘nothing’.”

Arden spared a glance for Valory’s awed expression. The wind’s fingers were batting bits of dark hair out of his queue. The unruly tendrils that curled around his face gave him that slightly wild appearance Arden was so fond of. Arden shook his head.  Up until their discussion in Kalma, he had been excellent at suppressing his attraction for his friend. As he had told his crew in the tavern on Lyre, he hadn’t thought Valory would appreciate that sort of admiration. Now he didn’t know what to think; a large part of him was convinced that, were he to offer, Valory would not refuse him.

Now, the idle thoughts and fantasies he had entertained while alone in his bunk at night didn’t seem so removed from reality. It made it far more difficult to ignore the effect the Prince’s presence had on him; both the warm embrace of his enchantment and his constant physical proximity were driving Arden to distraction.

Valory turned back towards him, a small smirk informing him that yes, he had indeed been caught staring. Again. “Are you tiring?” _He knows. He has to know. Why isn’t he saying anything about it?_

Arden shook his head, realizing that he had been pulling wind over Windjammer’s beam without thinking for some time. “No. Well, perhaps a bit. This is about the most I can do without overtaxing myself.”

Valory stepped closer to the helm, using Arden’s knee as an armrest as though it was the most natural position in the world. “You forget that we are touching, Arden – I can feel how much strength this takes.”

Arden spared a quick glance for the compass, ensuring that he hadn’t strayed from their course in his distraction. Valory was staring back over their beam again, watching the cattails with interest. He was so very handsome in profile – the hawk’s nose, strong jaw, proud brow framing his intense stare . . .

Arden shook his head again. It would not do to think such things while sitting in this position; if his body turned traitor and responded to the thoughts that had begun to cycle in his mind, he was afraid that his simple linen trousers wouldn’t do a thing to disguise his intentions. Valory’s bent elbow had inched halfway up his thigh, and damn if it didn’t take a great feat of mental force to avoid thinking of the position they were in as an embrace.

“I am only able to continue like this because you are taking some of the strain,” Arden said, voice sounding rough to his own ears.

“Perhaps, but we have gained some speed, haven’t we?”

“It’s not enough.” He slipped his hand from Valory’s shoulder and released his hold on the wind. _Windjammer_ slowed to her original pace once more.

“And now you are disappointed with yourself on my behalf – needlessly, I might add. Sometimes I think you expect to hear Miran’s criticisms spill from my lips.”

What could Arden say to that? It was the truth, after all. His deepest thoughts of self-doubt always imparted themselves in his father’s voice. He knew he was skilled at his craft – indeed, at most things he put his hands to since he’d left Armathia – but logic did not always win the day. He was only human, after all. “Do you never doubt yourself, my Lord?” he murmured, discomfort causing him to reflexively address Valory by his title.

“You know that I do,” Valory frowned. “I have told you that I second-guess so many of my own choices, that I doubt my ability to be the leader that Anaphe needs.”

“You question yourself, yes, what man does not? Yet your words and actions tell of a kind of confidence that I envy – knowing that you have the right of it, knowing that you have a role to play, knowing that you will play that role to the best of your ability . . .”

“I know myself to be a capable man, and I’m aware that this sureness projects itself as you just asserted. But to say that I always have the right of it . . . well, that I doubt.”

“You are a better man than you realize.”

Valory pinned him with an intense stare. “I could say the same of you.”

Arden shook his head. “I have much to make up for.”

“We all have our fair share of misdeeds and missteps.”

“Yes,” he said, shifting his gaze back down to his hands. He was gripping the spokes of _Windjammer’s_ helm so tightly his knuckles were white. “I am a deserter.”

Valory frowned at the flatness of his voice. “You cannot truly believe that.”

“I am trying to make up for it. I fear I will never truly make amends.” He checked their course again, pushing the helm over a spoke or two to hold them further away from the wind.

“That’s absurd.”

“Not at all. When we return to Armathia . . . Gods, I hardly know what I will do. I could tell my father that I’ve been slaying fire-drakes and saving fair maidens for two decades and he will still deem me beyond redemption. I imagine that the rest of the court will think it wise to concur with his opinion.”

“Not to level a callous insult at your House, Arden, but – forget your father. If the particulars of returning to Armathian court as Arden bar Miran worry you, know that you will arrive with the highest commendation I can give. As you said before, I know my place very well; I’m aware of the weight that my words carry. More, I imagine, than even those of the High Steward.”

“We have spoken of this; you said that there is little you would not do for a friend. I do not want to ask this kind of favor of you.”

Valory heaved a great sigh at Arden’s words before turning in towards him. The movement pressed his chest flush against Arden’s leg; his elbow slid up towards Arden’s hip. Arden swallowed. _He is touching like this, knowing what he knows of me._ The proximity was intoxicating.

“It is no favor, as I told you before – and not merely because I prize our friendship. Any commendation I would give would be simple, honest truth.”

Arden swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. “You are giving me a great gift. I had not thought I would ever get a second chance.”

“Whatever you choose to do with that chance is your decision. I have met few men as effortlessly capable as you.”

“I . . .” Arden trailed off, pinned in place by Valory’s stare, desperately trying to keep his mind from straying. Valory’s hand was pressing against the inside of his leg just above his knee, and Arden became aware of the sweat slicking his palms, the heat flaring in his belly, the traitorous temptation to lean down and claim the Prince’s mouth with his own.

“What is it?” Valory asked, voice low.

 _You damn well know the answer to that question_ , Arden thought irritably. “Nothing,” he muttered, forcing himself to look back out at the horizon.

“You’re worried,” Valory surmised. “There will be talk, I’m sure. We cannot avoid that entirely.”

Arden sighed. “Yet I wish I could.”

“You don’t strike me as one who can be swayed by idle tongues – not even by those which deliver barbs that are not so idle. You seemed in your element when confronted with the doubt and criticism of Edgar’s men.”

Arden was thankful that, for the moment, Valory was choosing not to draw verbal attention to the way his thumb was tracing the top edge of his knee cap – nor to the way that the muscle beneath his hand was nearly vibrating with tension. “Even when I know I have the right of it, as was the case in Kalma, I fear I still have the tendency to dissect every word said to me.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Do we?” Arden asked, surprised. “Do you?”

“We are only men, after all – as you have said. It is a callous and lonely soul who does not care about the opinions of others. I only hope that you do not swing in the other direction and let the baseless epithets of fools dictate your own opinion of yourself.”

“I am not in so sorry a state, no, but I do worry what such talk will mean for my place in court. I . . . we spoke of this before. It will be difficult to leave my duties as First Officer aboard _Windjammer_ in favor of a role as the third son in a family where only two are needed.”

“You will always have a place in my brother’s court. You know that.”

“I had suspected that I might be offered a position as a councilor after your brother took the crown.” Arden said. “To tell you the truth – and I know this is something you will understand – I wonder whether or not I can live a landlocked life after so many years at sea.”

Valory’s lips tightened. “Yes, I do understand. If that is the case, there is always the matter of that captaincy in the Armathian navy – or anywhere else you desire.”

Arden nodded. He had resisted the idea the last time Valory had pitched it; this time, however, he gave it more consideration. He was more than competent enough to captain a vessel. He had chosen to stay an officer to escape notice by the familiar faces that he was so anxious to avoid – harbormasters, merchants, navy men – many of whom knew his father. 

“Maybe I will go that route, then,” he murmured, “though it will be difficult to say goodbye to _Windjammer_ and her crew.”

“I know – like disbanding my unit after all this time.”

Arden hadn’t expected the undercurrent of _pain_ in Valory’s voice, and turned to see it written across his features in the instant before he schooled them to neutrality. “Oh,” he said, “Anaphe.”

“Very soon,” Valory replied.

“I’m sorry,” Arden said, taking a hand off of the helm and placing it back at the juncture between Valory’s neck and shoulder – a gesture of comfort that was now familiar between them.

Arden realized his mistake immediately; at this proximity, the gesture was far more intimate than he had intended. Valory’s upturned face was so close. It would be so easy to lean forward, to kiss him, to move his hand those few inches and cup that stubbled jaw – and he wanted to so very badly. He felt his fingers twitch against Valory’s collarbone at the thought. A mere hand’s width was all that separated his fingers from sinking into those wild dark locks, from tangling there in the hair at the base of his skull and pulling, baring his throat and –

 _Oh Gods_ , he thought, watching Valory’s Adam’s apple bob, _stop staring._ Trying to regain control of his tumbling thoughts Arden dragged his gaze back up to Valory’s face, already anticipating the knowing smirk he was sure he would see there.

He was wrong. Valory wasn’t smirking at all; his lips were parted, eyes dark, and the hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on Arden’s knee was now gripping the muscle above it with near-bruising force. _Oh, Gods_ , he thought again as what felt like all of the blood in his body rushed directly to his groin. This thought was followed shortly by _bless you, Jonah –_ for the man chose that exact moment to emerge from the companionway sprouting some drivel about Kythrian soldiers being card-cheats.

Valory sprang backwards as though he had been burnt. “It’s about time that I relieve Imran; I’m due for a turn on bow watch. Good afternoon, Jonah,” he said, voice full of gravel. With that he disappeared down the quarterdeck steps. Arden gaped after him. What in Fángon’s name had just happened?

Jonah, for his part, looked equally confused. “Jack?” he questioned, looking back and forth between him and the Prince’s retreating form.

“Jonah?” he answered, dumbly.

“Jack . . . are you? Is he? Did you . . . ?”

 _Oh, good. My actions looked exactly as inappropriate as they felt._ Arden heaved a sigh, trying not to feel the sting of Valory’s sudden departure. “Don’t look at me, mate. I have no idea.”

…

For once the wind had worked in their favor, blowing steadily from the southwest for several consecutive days. They had sped down the coast of Kilcoran without pause until that evening. Although they were mere hours away from reaching Iron Harbor, fear of being spotted by Westernese vessels encouraged them to rest where they were. They elected to spend the night anchored in a protective inlet overlooked by the craggy bluffs of Kilcoran’s sparsely populated Iron Shore.

Admiral Edgar had circulated an invitation for all officers to dine aboard the _Madesta_ that evening. As dusk fell and sailors across four decks worked to put their vessels away, Valory dug through his pack for the only good tunic he ever carried when traveling. He knew that the invitation had more to do with strategy than social calls, but there still remained certain expectations when one was breaking bread with high-ranking officers.

A thump from directly above his head informed him that the fo’c’sle hatch had been opened. He glanced up, expecting to see one of his men. Instead, Arden’s form hovered above him, silhouetted against the night sky. He was positioned at such an angle that the waning moon sat just above his shoulder, rising up like some sort of ethereal epaulette.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a clean shirt, would you? I just split my last good one at the seams,” he said.

Valory averted his eyes from Arden’s bare chest, schooling his features with care. “A waistcoat, perhaps? It’s worn, but it is finely made. It should hide the tear in your shirt, at the very least,” he suggested, pulling out a slightly rumpled bundle of white linen.

“Let’s see,” Arden said, swinging down the ladder with practiced ease. He was still carrying his ruined shirt in one hand; he had meant to take it to Ehrin for darning if there was no other recourse.

“How did you manage that?” Valory asked, gesturing to the vertical split in the back of the shirt that Arden was pulling over his head.

“I haven’t worn it in ages. I suppose it’s a bit tight in the shoulders,” he shrugged, lacing up the front neatly.

That was an understatement. Valory noted the embroidered silver suns on each cuff, winking in the candlelight; Arden must have taken this shirt with him when he left Armathia. Of course, he had grown half a head and filled out substantially in the intervening time. Arden pulled on the waistcoat next, adjusting it to sit the way he wanted. It was a nearly perfect fit; small wonder the shirt was not.

“Is it comfortable?” Valory asked, slipping his own richly embroidered tunic over his head.

“Excellent, thank you – it seems we are of a size,” Arden remarked, buttoning up the decorative toggles. He paused halfway up, glancing down to examine the unusually shaped buttons. “Oh,” he said, hands stilling in surprise. “Val, I can’t – this is your sigil.”

The finely made mother-of-pearl toggles were carved into the shape of quarter moons: the identifying feature of the Regent’s crest.

Valory decided that there was something powerful about seeing Arden clothed in a waistcoat bearing his sigil – an honor that should only have been extended to Conrad. Arden was obviously having similar thoughts, for he had begun taking the garment off.

Valory reached up to stay his hands. “That’s all I have, Arden; the rest of my clothing is filthy.”

“I can make do with a darned shirt if I must,” Arden insisted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Valory began to button the waistcoat once more.

“They will think that I am your Steward,” Arden said, voice catching in his throat as he felt Valory’s fingers brushing against his chest.

“Does that truly bother you so?” Valory asked, unable to prevent himself from feeling a pang of hurt at Arden’s words.

“It is not my position to usurp,” he replied, eyes dropping to avoid the Prince’s gaze.

“If Edgar asks – and I daresay he would be the only one to understand the significance – I will tell him that one of his soldiers spilt a mug of grog upon your livery, and so I lent you mine. Will that appease your sense of propriety?”

Arden returned Valory’s small smile. “Very well.” He did not dwell on why he was so eager to accept the Prince’s faulty logic in order to wear an item of his clothing. It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Besides, it suits you. Only . . .” he trailed off wistfully, playing with one of the delicate buttons.

“Only?”

“It should be blue,” Valory murmured, dropping his hands to his sides and turning away, busying himself with straightening up his pack.

The meaning implicit in his words was overwhelming. _It should be blue_ , Arden repeated in his head. _His sigil, in my colors. The formal attire of the Regent’s Steward. Gods, does he have any idea what he is *saying*? Of course he does, it’s Valory, but –_

“Are you alright?” Valory asked, raising a brow at him.

“Quite,” Arden managed. _What game are you playing, Val?_

“Good, because if we tarry any longer, we will be late. Shall we?”

Arden followed him up the ladder with a sigh.

…

As it turned out, the Kythrian officers were far too absorbed in strategic details to pay much attention to Arden’s borrowed waistcoat. Edgar had pursed his lips when he first recognized the sigil, but seemed to give it little consideration. He could feel Gavin’s curious stare – just as he had at the fort – but that was no more than he had expected. As the meal progressed, Arden felt himself begin to relax.

“We will sail on the tide tomorrow and make for Iron Harbor. _Windjammer_ will go first, in case there are any Westernese vessels scouting the area. She is the most inconspicuous choice,” Edgar declared around a mouthful of salted pork.

“That should put us in the harbor by late afternoon. Our soldiers may even be able to reach Illen’s Arm by sundown if all goes well,” Landon added.

“ _If_ ,” Colton stressed.

“Providing everything goes according to plan, we will weigh anchor at four bells the following morning. That will give the Westernese enough time to slip into place and begin their maneuvers before _Madesta_ rounds the point. Once my crew boards the first vessel – or we are recognized – I will sound the call and _Rhane, Pioneer,_ and _Windjammer_ will enter. Captain Callum, I believe your vessel is the most maneuverable of the lot; you will have to insinuate yourself between the Western fleet and the beaches of Illen’s Arm. If they manage to storm the town, the outcome is bleak.”

“If we have your help we can prevent a longboat launch, but I fear they will try to run us aground,” Callum said.

“Hopefully the assault from the fort will deter them, sir,” Landon’s lieutenant offered.

“And if it does not, _Rhane_ will,” Landon promised.

“Let us pray it does not come to that,” Colton frowned. “It’s bad enough that we are trapping ourselves in the bay with them while waiting for the Bightton fleet to arrive, but what if they smell an ambush and turn tail?”

“We cannot afford to let them escape,” Valory said.

“That leaves _Pioneer_ to intercept any fleeing vessels,” Arden mused.

“ _Pioneer_ is resilient enough, so long as they do not attempt to drive us into the point,” Colton said, “which is exactly what I would expect them to do.”

“What if we disabled every vessel we board? It will litter the harbor with obstacles – dangerously so, perhaps – but it will also make escape far more difficult,” Valory suggested.

“It would be impossible to attempt what you did what the _Madesta_ , my Lord. We have no telekinetics powerful enough to do so without putting themselves in harm’s way,” Edgar said.

“Smash their steering gear, then. We did what we did with _Madesta_ because we did not have the numbers to storm her decks,” Valory replied.

“A pair of bolt cutters is all you would need,” Callum said. “I would stay away from the shrouds on principle. It would be folly to dismast a vessel in such close quarters.”

“Then it is settled: steering gear it is,” Edgar said pushing his plate away with a sigh. “Is everyone clear on their duties?”

Murmurs of assent rose up from around the table. After a moment, however, Landon’s Lieutenant spoke up once more. “Begging your pardon sir, but are we to allow the men a bit of revelry tomorrow evening?”

Edgar considered the idea. “I suppose we cannot deny them such on the eve of battle, though you must exercise good judgment.”

“No rum. Absolutely none,” Colton demanded. “It would be folly to further our disadvantage by permitting our men to wake up wooly-headed.”

“Revelry is best kept below decks if it must happen at all. Musicians should be warned against taking out their instruments; it is not so far around the point, and sound carries well around these bluffs,” Landon added.

“And of lights?” Gavin asked.

“Lights out at dusk. We needs must disappear into the backdrop of the harbor. I will not have our surprise ruined by a careless candle. Other than that, gentlemen, I leave the management of your crews up to you. If you permit them to gather, for Illen’s sake be careful about it,” Edgar warned.

“That seems prudent,” Valory said as Colton asked,

“Is that satisfactory, Captain Callum?”

Callum shrugged. “My crew will gather, but not for any real revelry. We have our ways before battle; they rarely involve more than a spot of storytelling.”

“And of your rum rations? And the soldiers you have aboard?” Colton continued.

“If you’re asking whether or not I guard them from pilfering, I suppose I do, in my own way. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

Arden snorted with barely suppressed laughter as Valory ducked his head to conceal his mirth. Edgar looked between the two of them suspiciously. “My Lord?”

Valory cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, if you believe the soldiers to be rowdy and problematic, I assure you that you have nothing to fear: they are all terrified of our cook.”

“She hid the rum, anyway,” Arden said.

“ _She_ hid it?” Colton asked.

Arden ignored the implied question in favor of the obvious one. “Of course she did – and there isn’t a man on board who would dare attempt to get to it.”

“Where did she put it?” Valory asked, furrowing his brow.

“You hadn’t noticed, my Lord? She stuffed half of a case underneath your mattress this morning.”

The assembled officers broke into thigh-slapping laughter, culminating in a toast to _Windjammer’s_ clever cook. As the talk turned from business to idle chatter, Arden found himself engaged in conversation with the Admiral.

“That is a fine waistcoat, young man,” Edgar said, ostensibly nodding at the pearlescent buttons that Arden had agonized over hours earlier.

“Thank you,” Arden replied, trying not to take offense at the way Edgar addressed him; the Admiral didn’t know they were of an age. He supposed that it shouldn’t surprise him that this was the case. He had never been much of a public figure until his disappearance, and even that had happened a long time ago.

“Your brother’s, I assume?” Edgar asked.

Arden felt Gavin’s eyes on him again and frowned. What was the man getting at? “I borrowed it from V—from the Prince, as it so happens. My own met with misfortune earlier today.”

“Is that so, sir?” Gavin asked, leveling a measured look at the embroidery at his collar.

It was as he feared. He had taken such pleasure in wearing something of Valory’s that he had allowed himself to overstep the boundaries of propriety in a conspicuous manner. He opened his mouth to respond, but Valory, who seemed to have been half listening to Arden while debating strategy with one of the Lieutenants, beat him to it.

“I am aware that it is the wrong color for Lord Arden’s house, but I find such matters trivial, to be honest. I hardly see it worth mentioning. Would you not lend a friend a shirt if he needed it, Admiral?” Valory asked.

“Of course, my Lord, though perhaps not my uniform coat,” Edgar admitted.

Arden tilted his head, considering the Admiral’s words. It seemed that he had no hostile intentions – he was only trying to make conversation.

“I wouldn’t quite consider that waistcoat a uniform,” Valory said wryly, “seeing as how I do not possess one.”

“But it is your sigil, my Lord,” Gavin pointed out. “Isn’t that inappropriate?”

Arden frowned. “What would you like to hear me say, Lieutenant? That my father would have my head if he saw me attired in clothes made for a Prince? Well, he would – but I hardly see how that is any concern of yours,” he snapped.

The table went utterly silent, save for Valory’s laughter. “That would be just like Lord Miran, wouldn’t it? He still calls my father by his formal title after decades of service, yet I swear to Ranael that my father wouldn’t care if he came to court in his nightshirt.”

Arden knew Valory well enough to realize that the laughter was a put-on even if the words themselves were true. “I suppose _someone_ has to look after the reputation of our Houses,” he said.

“Just like a Steward, to say so,” Valory replied. Arden felt his stomach flip at the warmth in his words. “Then again, it is also just like a Steward to trip over the line between propriety and absurdity. Miran was calling me ‘my Lord’ when I was still in the nursery, Arden. I find your informality rather relieving.”

Edgar chuckled at the idea of a babe-in-arms being accorded such an honor. “I’ll tell you what, Lieutenant Gavin – I’ll lend you a waistcoat as well, if you’re ever in dire straits. Whatever happened to yours, Lord Arden?”

“Grog,” Arden sighed, lying with ease.

“No wonder Ehrin hid the rum,” Callum grinned.

The tension in the room was broken, though Arden didn’t miss the way that Gavin continued to glance back and forth between Valory and himself. The other Lieutenants, however, seemed to be basking in the opportunity to have their Regent’s undivided attention.

“Would you tell us something of your family, Prince Valory?” Colton’s Lieutenant asked. “That is, if it’s alright with you, sir.”

Valory nodded. Arden felt a hand squeeze his elbow reassuringly – perhaps apologetically – under the table. Feeling emboldened, Arden allowed his hand to slip from his lap onto Valory’s knee, giving it a fond press in return. _Apology accepted_.

“What would you like to know?” Valory asked. The officers glanced at one another in a moment of gleeful disbelief. A personal story – from the son of the King!

“One from your childhood, my Lord – if that is not too much,” Captain Landon beseeched.

“Perhaps a story that involves Lord Arden as well,” Gavin suggested. Arden frowned.

“I’m afraid there are no such stories, gentlemen; Arden and I are not as close in age as we seem,” Valory said, sending a conspiratorial glance in Arden’s direction. Arden pressed Valory’s knee once more – _thank you, thank you, thank you._

“Oh,” Gavin murmured, not asking for more information. They were straying into details about enchantments; a topic he knew better than to broach.

“Nevertheless I think I know just the one,” Valory said, leaning forward to prop both of his elbows up on the table. “One thing Arden and I share is a great fondness for our older brothers.” The men around the table went so quiet one could hear a pin drop; they couldn’t have hoped for better than a story about the heir-apparent and the future High Steward. Arden knew that Valory was doing this to boost morale; to remind the men of what their duty was, and why. He would not have obliged such a request otherwise. “Siath and Verne are an interesting pair, mind – my brother is a very warm man, calm, with a peaceful air about him and an open sort of countenance that most people find very charming. Wouldn’t you say so, Admiral?”

Edgar looked pleased about being called upon for testimony. “Absolutely, my Lord. He is most gracious.”

“Indeed,” Valory said. “Now that is not to say that he is not a great leader of men; merely that his subjects tend to feel at ease in his presence. Lord Verne is . . . rather more circumspect – upstanding in his duty, but difficult to get to know. Indeed, my brother hardly knew him at all until mere weeks before accepting his pledge of fealty.”

Arden nodded; he knew this story. It was a good one for the assembled company – filled with action and adventure – and painted both of their brothers in a very flattering light. It was amusing to hear Valory tell it. He didn’t get the chance to hear very many anecdotes from the Prince – at least, not for the sake of entertainment – and found himself impressed with Valory’s skill at storytelling. As the tale wore on, however, his attention began to slip. It wasn’t through any fault of Valory’s. Rather, Arden found that he enjoyed listening to the cadence of his friend’s deep voice as it rose and fell, hands animating the tale with broad sweeps and gestures.

“. . . So Verne was sent out upon his first assignment knowing that my brother’s men were mired down in the swamp lands and being stalked by this terrible creature. The dispatches sounded dire – I remember them clearly. My brother’s men were being picked off one by one in the dead of night, without any sound or warning,” Valory was saying.

Arden found himself thinking about something else entirely. _He spoke rightly in Kalma. He is not blind to anything, though he does not share his brother’s gift of Sight. He assumed he knew the nature of the questions I wanted to ask him. He most likely does. He’s brilliant. Wants me to work out the answers myself, does he? I’ve been trying. Perhaps I am simply overlooking the obvious. Well, the only obvious thing is this: my hand is on his knee, right at this moment, under the table. If any of these sailors were to see it, there is no possible way to interpret it differently. He allows it. Is he tacitly encouraging this thing between us?_

“. . . To traverse those borders, of course, is a dangerous thing. Few men go into the swamp forests; it is said that great evil lurks there, waiting for unsuspecting victims to fall into its trap.” Valory’s voice hummed in the background, continuing to weave his tale.

_If he is—_

_I would be a fool to go along with it. He’s my superior, my brother’s Regent, and my only ally in Armathia. He is my friend, moreover – and a man that I’ve come to admire a great deal. Can I gamble all of that for the sake of a handful of nights? Is it worth the risk?_

_I could come to care for him too much, besides. That’s a complication that I can’t afford._

“. . . and the creature snuck upon them in the dead of night, stalking its prey in silence. Verne lay awake, broadsword clutched to his chest. He fought to keep his breathing slow and still even as his heart pounded,” Valory said, eyes alight, hand clutching at his breast as he leaned forward in his seat. It was rare to hear him speak with such enthusiasm.

_There’s nothing for it: I’m drawn to him. Am I truly going to ignore his interest in the name of avoiding complication? Unlikely._

“. . . He felt it in the lengthening of the shadows around him. Not a physical darkening of light, mind you, for little moonlight reaches the ground in such a place. Rather, he felt the shadows upon his heart, for this creature was evil through and through . . _._

 _Yet for all of that, he’s not made his intentions clear. Surely he must know that, above all else, we’re bound by our Houses: what cheek, for a Steward to proposition a Prince. It would be insubordinate of me, while for him . . ._ Arden’s thoughts ground to a halt, the answer to his unvoiced question striking him in a sudden flash of comprehension.

_I should have known; this has *everything* to do with our Houses. My words to him would be insubordination, yes – but if he made any request of me, I could easily misinterpret it for an order. He fears I would feel an obligation towards him. That I would see it as an act of service rather than an act of pleasure._

“He prepared himself for confrontation. He knew that the creature would strike, a stunning blow, in utter silence. He had to strike first. It was the only way.”

_He seeks companionship: a bit of relief from a close friend. Yet his station is such that he dare not ask – nor even imply – that he harbors such desires._

“. . . and beheld its terrible face. In that moment of utter horror, he realized that the creature did not seek to strike him. It was stalking my brother, the Crown Prince of Oceana.”

_Thank the Gods I wasn’t born a King. I couldn’t handle subterfuge in my personal affairs as well as my public ones._

“Though they had hardly spoken outside the most formal of contexts, Lord Verne had long since deemed my brother a fine and worthy man. He had already decided that, if needed, he would die in his place. Such is Lord Verne’s quiet loyalty – hidden under a mask of stern composure, but inimitable in its fierceness.”

_It seems I must take matters into my own hands. If I’m wrong, however, I’m going to humiliate myself – potentially with my crew and his men bearing witness._

“. . . Left arm hanging limp, the toxin working its way through his blood, he stood to face the creature, swinging his broadsword overhead with one hand . . .”

_Yet here we are, with my hand still on his knee. He continues to allow it, encouraging me touch him as he did me at the helm days ago. There is no possible way he’s unaware of what’s going on: if he’s uninterested in lads, I’ll eat my hat._

_Or be horribly embarrassed, and schedule myself for dog watch for the next month and a half._

“He brought it down in a vicious arc, beheading the creature with a single stroke. With a great shriek, the creature collapsed to the ground. Mind numb with the toxin his knees gave way; it was my brother who caught him before he fell. He begged to give his pledge of fealty then and there, perhaps afraid that he might die. My brother would not allow it. ‘You will live, son of Miran’, he said, ‘I swear it.’ And Verne looked up and him and said, ‘If my Lord commands it’ before the toxin took him and his eyes rolled back in his head.”

Valory looked over at him, eyes bright with the telling of the climax of the story. Arden swallowed down the rush of emotion he felt, keeping his thoughts logical and distant. _Could I go to him, knowing that?_ He returned Valory’s smile. _Gods, how could I not?_

“And so it seems,” Valory said, “that history has repeated itself. Lord Verne saved my brother’s life in the Sarian swamps; mere weeks ago, Lord Arden saved mine.”

“Did he, my Lord?” Gavin asked eagerly. “How?”

“Ah,” Valory shook his head, “I believe that is a story for another time.”

“What of Lord Verne and his pledge?” Colton asked.

“He gave it when they returned to Armathia, kneeling before my brother in the presence of the King and High Steward. That is tradition, after all. My brother accepted the pledge gratefully, as well he did – he owed his life to his Steward. A great friendship was forged in the Sarian swamps, one which has been rather remarkable to witness over the years. A more unlikely pair does not exist,” Valory said. “You’d remember that, Arden; you were there as well.”

“I was,” Arden said as all of the eyes around the table turned to focus on him. “Much ceremony. My brother was still limping at the time, though I daresay everyone was too afraid to point it out. He knelt before the King to be knighted, then remained there until Prince Siath gave in and came to stand before him.”

“He is a proud man, your brother,” Valory murmured. “It was quite a sight. My brother smiling kindly down upon Verne, Verne with such a look of . . .”

“Aloofness, yet intense devotion?” Arden offered, aware that all of the men present were eagerly taking in all of their words. “Yes, that’s how he is. It was rather like watching a cat pledge fealty to a mastiff.”

The last of Arden’s words were swallowed up by the urgent ringing of the ship’s bell. He and Valory were up and out of their seats before any of the officers had the chance to react. He drew his rig knife as they raced up the companionway; the quarters were too close for his cutlass.

The bell had ceased ringing by the time they reached the quarterdeck. Two of _Madesta’s_ petty officers stood next to the cap rail, cutlasses in hand, chests heaving.  On the deck at their feet lay a twisted figure, black blood seeping from its fatal wounds.

Arden knew that Valory was standing just behind him without having to look. He heard the noise of the other officers charging up the quarterdeck steps, each of them coming to a stunned halt when they took in the scene before them. Finally one of the petty officers sheathed his cutlass with shaky hands and kicked the creature over onto its back. Milky eyes were frozen open in shock, rows of jagged teeth were displayed within a mouth that had fallen open during its last moments.  The arms were splayed out haphazardly, long claws scraping against the deck. It was hideous.

“Was it only the one?” Edgar demanded, regaining use of his voice.

“Yes sir,” the officer said, obviously fighting to keep the tremor out of his words.

Landon’s sigh of relief was audible. “Are you certain?” he asked.

“We looked, sir. Scouted the waters. It’s just a lone hunting witch,” the officer replied.

“It’s a bad omen,” Colton said. “No two ways about it.”

“Bad luck to say such things,” Callum muttered.

“Post a good watch tonight, gentlemen,” Edgar cut in. “If this is a harbinger of a different sort of attack, I don’t want to be taken by surprise. Illen’s Arm would only suffer for it.”

“Perhaps it’s just a solitary witch. They’re passing common. Last month’s attack has all of our hackles up,” Landon suggested. It was obvious that he did not believe his own words.

“Perhaps,” Valory said, “though the coincidence is remarkable.”

“I must return to my vessel,” Colton said abruptly. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“And I as well.” Landon exchanged glances with his Lieutenant. “I wonder whether or not it is wiser to simply not tell my men of this. They will not be glad to hear talk of sea-witches – not after what happened last time.”

“That is your prerogative, Captain,” the Admiral sighed.

“Let us go, then,” Landon murmured.

“Sir,” his Lieutenant nodded. They retreated towards the beam together.

“Throw the corpse over,” Edgar commanded his men before turning back to Valory. “Well, my Lord?”

“I’m not sure whether I believe in omens, Admiral,” Valory said, voice pitched low, “but if I did, this is exactly the sort of news I wouldn’t want to receive.”


	11. Chapter 11

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 14; 2421_

Night had fallen by the time Valory returned to the _Windjammer._ The soft murmur of voices could be heard spilling from the quarterdeck where the crew had already gathered. He made his way aft, straining to hear who was speaking. It was Jonah, he decided upon mounting the quarterdeck steps. He was treating the crew to a spot of epic poetry – the cadence was clearly in verse – while the rest lounged around picking at several plates of Ehrin’s pastries. Valory was unsurprised to note that Little, Imran, and Gabe had joined the complement of soldiers and sailors surrounding the helm; his unit’s own habits on the eve of battle had always been quite similar.

After a moment’s glance, he realized that Arden was conspicuously absent. The man couldn’t be far – Valory could still feel the acute press of his enchantment. A cursory glance around the deck revealed that his usual haunts were vacant as well; the deck boxes were unoccupied, none sat perched upon the steering gear, and no coils sat out on deck when the sails were down. Valory’s inspection of the deck led him to catch Callum’s eye, who nodded towards the foremast with a shadow of a smile upon his face. Valory pressed his palms together in silent thanks. _Of course_ , he thought, _the foresail gaff._ He purloined a few lemon cakes before slipping away from the gathering and making his way back to the midships housetop.

Arden, who had been observing the proceedings from his favorite perch, started in surprise when the gaff beneath him shook under another’s weight. He scooted further back on the jaws, leaning against the foremast to brace his own weight. A hand appeared on one of the aftermost lazy jacks, followed by another, followed by the welcome sight of Valory’s dark head. The Prince pulled himself up with ease.

“How’s the storytelling?” Arden asked as Valory got a foothold on the boom and stood up to his full height.

“Jonah was reciting a bit from the Chronicles – the verses about Eramen and Drand fighting the queen kraken. He’s very good,” Valory replied, toeing his way along the boom, careful not to slip on the sail. It would be unpleasant to fall the ten or so feet down to the deck, after all.

Arden shifted so his legs were hanging down, toes brushing against the furled sail. “Any tempting pastries?”

Valory settled in between the forward-most lazy jacks, swinging a leg over the gaff so he mirrored Arden’s position.  “I brought you a lemon cake,” he said, knees knocking with Arden’s as he passed off the confection.

“A corner piece, I hope.”

“Of course,” he answered, smile visible even on that dark, moonless night.

Arden took a big bite, sighing with contentment. “Any more news from Edgar?”

“Nothing important. I think he wanted me there when the soldiers were seen off to bolster their spirits.”

“Understandable, after last night’s incident with the sea-witch. They reached shore unmolested?”

“They did. That’s the first part of your plan concluded, then: Illen’s Arm will know of the impending attack in a few short hours.”

“A relief,” Arden said, leaning his head back against the mast as he swallowed the last of his cake. “At least we stand a fighting chance, now.”

“Which we will test tomorrow. Who knows what we will see.”

Arden grimaced. “Not a pleasant thought, my Lord.”

“Reverting back to titles, now?”

“I do it without thinking sometimes. I mean nothing by it,” Arden murmured. He wondered if Valory knew it for the lie it was. He was afraid that it was beginning to sound a bit possessive when he said it: ‘ _my_ Lord’.

The height of Valory’s eyebrow made it clear that he didn’t believe a word of Arden’s excuse. “You were saying?”

 Arden shrugged. “Tomorrow’s fight is a necessary one. No matter how unpleasant the thought of battle is, I know it’s inevitable. Yet that doesn’t account for the anticipation I feel. I wonder whether I’ve come to crave the rush that action provides.”

“Does that trouble you?” Valory asked.

“Not as much as it should, perhaps, considering how terrible the aftermath is.”

“You would be dreadfully bored if you sailed with a simple merchant crew.”

“Believe me, I know. When we have a string of cut and dry commissions in a row, Niko isn’t the only one chomping at the bit for a challenge.” He tapped a staccato rhythm out on the gaff between them. “I suppose I’m still coming to terms with having become the sort of man I never thought I’d be.”

Valory nodded, comprehension smoothing the line between his brows. “With so much time spent doing advanced academics with Armathian priests, you’d have wanted to fashion yourself a pacifist in their image.”

“Childish fancy, perhaps – before I truly came to understand the ways of the world, and that such conflict would prove unavoidable.” Arden let out a huff of laughter. “If I had known that I would get so caught up in action, I might have made a better cavalryman back in the day. It’d have made things a far sight easier for me.”

Valory heard the bitter twist of irony underlying his words. “Yet I find myself rather richer for having you on my side now, orchestrating victory, rather than patrolling some far-flung border town.” Looking back at Arden to gauge his reaction, Valory noted that the other man’s leg was jumping up and down, bouncing with tension. “Tell me you’re not the superstitious sort who gets an attack of the nerves when one mentions triumph the night before a battle.”

“You’ll be glad to hear that my nerves stem from far more practical sources.”

“You must believe we will carry the day,” Valory frowned. “Your enchantment . . .?”

“I’m not so far-Seeing as that. I do, however, have a feeling that there’s an angle I’ve failed to consider. Whether that’s enchantment or intuition, I’m not sure – but it’s driving me to distraction either way,” he said, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips.

“The responsibility for considering all angles doesn’t fall upon your shoulders alone,” Valory reminded him.

Arden shook his head. “The strategy was mine. I’m not about to foist blame off onto someone else if any of ours fall because of a blind spot in my reasoning.”

“Then we must not let it come to that.”

“Agreed.”

Valory watched Arden’s leg jump for a few more minutes. He could almost see the gears turning in Arden’s mind, trying to work out angles and scenarios he hadn’t already considered. As Arden’s frown began to deepen, however, he finally reached out and placed a hand on Arden’s leg to still it. “Peace,” he murmured.

“I assure you I will be at ease tomorrow morning. I always feel a great calm before it all goes to the locker – an unparalleled focus that nothing else can give me. I will perform adequately,” Arden said, his focus snapping back onto Valory once more.

“I’m sure you will, but I wonder whether you might be better off joining the rest of the men. A few of Jonah’s tales are certain to calm your nerves,” Valory suggested.

“You spoke of this before: one’s presence can be a powerful thing, and I would rather they see me calm and confident tomorrow morning than jittery and agitated tonight.”

“Fair enough.” They sat in silence for a few more moments before Valory admitted, “I find it difficult to sleep the night before battle. I hope that you won’t suffer from a similar problem. It could cost you.”

Arden looked up from the hand on his knee to meet Valory’s intense stare. Truth be told the impending conflict wasn’t the only reason he felt anxious; he had been turning over the very conversation they were having in his head the entire day, imagining all of the possible ways it could end. It was not uncommon for a soldier’s nerves to fray the night before battle. It was, for that reason, also not uncommon for a soldier to seek some sort of diversion on such an occasion, whether that diversion came in the form of drink, song, or company.

“True enough,” he murmured, holding Valory’s stare, “it wouldn’t do to be anything less than sharp tomorrow morning, especially with such an early start.”

“No,” Valory agreed, voice deep.

Arden suppressed a shiver. This was the exact sort of opening he had been waiting – even hoping – for. He leaned forward, watching Valory’s reaction. They both knew what he was doing. Arden figured that it was pure idiocy on his part; it would change things between them immediately and irreparably. Still, he couldn’t stop himself.

He dug his toes into the boom, standing and grabbing hold of the lazy jacks just above where they cut into Valory’s thighs. He was looking down upon Valory’s upturned face, fighting to control his breathing. “Yet despite that,” he began, swinging a leg over the gaff, “I fear that I will spend my night tossing and turning.”

“I would it weren’t so,” Valory replied. He hadn’t moved back and as such, his shoulder was pressed flush against the center of Arden’s chest.

“As would I. My mind will be working too hard for sleep to claim it.” Their faces were so close together he could feel Valory’s breath on his lips. He swallowed. “I find that many share such an affliction on the eve of battle. If you find your thoughts spiraling, keeping you from sleep as well . . .” he trailed off.

“Yes?” Valory murmured.

Arden’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then I would welcome your company.”

He did not wait to hear the Prince’s reaction, choosing instead to slide down from the boom to the midships housetop and stride – briskly – across the deck towards the companionway. Arden sighed. He knew he was being an utter coward, but still found himself unwilling and unable to wait for Valory’s reaction. He knew the man. If he had misread the whole situation, Valory would gloss over the incident to spare him the indignity. Making as though the words had never come from his mouth, however, would be slightly more difficult if they remained sitting across from one another on the foresail gaff. Arden was certain that he couldn’t have endured Valory’s kind, pitying glances. No; he had to retreat.

If the Prince followed him . . .

Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead just yet.

…

Several minutes later Arden was pacing back and forth inside his dark cabin. His thoughts circled mercilessly inside his head, taunting him in his father’s voice, cursing him for all kinds of a fool. How could he have let such words slip past his lips in Valory’s presence?

The cabin was hot and stuffy, making him feel as though he was suffocating. He slammed the port light open in desperation, letting in the offshore breeze. Without the salt-caked port light in the way the starlight filtered into the cabin, by which he could make out the shape of a plump orange tabby on top of his bunk. Mizzen regarded him with bored curiosity, eyes disconcertingly aware in the dark.

“What have I done?” he whispered at her.

“Mrrrow,” she replied, stretching.

“I am an idiot,” he seethed.

“Meow,” she agreed.

The knock on the door was so loud he jumped. His palms began to sweat. He felt as though he had a leaden weight in his stomach.

“Enter,” he called, trying to keep the waver out of his voice.

After a brief hesitation, Valory stepped inside the cabin and dogged the door shut behind him. For a moment all they did was stare at one another. Even in the dark Arden could make out the expression on Valory’s face. He had seen such an expression many times on other men, even fleetingly – occasionally – on Valory’s own.  He had been right after all: the Prince had been waiting for such an invitation, and made no bones about hiding it.

Valory closed the distance between them in a single stride, grabbing his hips with near bruising force and pushing him back into the wall. Arden’s shoulders hit the bulkhead with a thud, sending a tingle of anticipation sparking up and down his spine. Valory pressed in so they were standing forehead to forehead – a far more intimate pose than Arden was used to. Rather than return the Prince’s penetrating gaze, Arden busied himself with the task of tugging Valory’s shirt and vest from his trousers. He didn’t expect to have his hands seized, arrested mid-movement, and pinned to the wall behind him. Arden gave in, raising his eyes to the Prince’s own.

“This is what you want,” Valory said, voice low.

Arden swallowed, arousal building under the intensity of the stare. “Yes,” he said. He knew exactly what Valory was asking – and why.

 “Arden. If there’s anything. _Anything_. You must tell me,” Valory said, voice no more than a growl. Arden could hear the desperation and desire in it, and from the way he was being pressed into the wall, he could feel _exactly_ how badly Valory wanted this.

“Trust me,” Arden responded; not what Valory was expecting, but apt nevertheless. He nodded, keeping their eyes locked. “Val. Trust me.” _Trust me not to be a dissembling sycophant who would do anything for political favors. Trust me when I say I want this. Trust me._

Valory’s hands released his wrists, expressions of relief and need warring over his features. Arden occupied himself with the business of rucking the man’s shirt and vest up, sliding his hands against the bare skin of Valory’s abdomen for the first time – _oh Gods I wish we were allowed candles so I could *see* this for myself_ – and rubbing his hips against Valory’s in invitation. He expected the answering push, inevitably thumping his shoulder blades back against the bulkhead. He didn’t expect Valory’s hands to come up and grip his face fiercely between calloused palms. He did not expect the man’s lips to come crashing down on his. For a moment Arden was stunned still – men did not often kiss one another during trysts like this – but after a brief hesitation joined in with all due enthusiasm, grinning against Valory’s lips.

Valory pressed his advantage, tongue delving into Arden’s mouth while fingers stuttered distractedly over his waist. He pressed forward again, tangling their legs together, forcing another groan from Arden as they ground against the bulkhead.

Arden pulled away from the kiss, tipping his head back. “Gods, like that,” he panted as Valory lined their hips up perfectly, providing just the right amount of friction. Arden resumed yanking at the laces of Valory’s vest, stripping it off before tossing it across the cabin. He had just begun fumbling with the buttons on the shirt when Valory shifted, cupping the back of his head with one hand, fingers threading in the hair at the base of his skull. A firm tug positioned Arden’s head exactly the way he wanted it. Arden let out an embarrassing noise at the sensation before Valory’s lips claimed his again, rendering him more or less incapable of conscious thought.

The grind of their hips became more insistent. It wasn’t long before they were rutting against one another desperately, keening and gasping and half out of their minds. He couldn’t remember the last time he had exercised so little self-control, had growled obscenities into another man’s mouth, had kissed and sucked and bit along the stubbled expanse of another man’s throat. Valory’s hips bucked as Arden’s teeth closed over the pulse point in his neck. He sucked and laved at the bite mark, relishing in the way Valory’s breath hitched at the attention. His own hands were bunched in the linen at the small of Valory’s back, pulling and pulling in a frantic bid for more friction, more contact, _more_.

Valory’s quiet groan turned into a low chuckle that rumbled throughout his frame. He pulled Arden away from his neck by the hair, stepping back and holding him at arms’ length. Arden panted. Valory looked wilder than Arden had ever seen him; hair unruly, face flushed, eyes nearly black with desire.

“Gods, what you do to me,” Valory said, voice hoarse. “But I will not do this up against the wall like an overeager lad.”

“Why not?” Arden smirked, pulling Valory back towards him by the belt.

Valory let Arden tug him forward, dropping his stubble-stung lips to kiss along the line of Arden’s jaw, humming appreciatively as Arden arched his neck, baring his throat to his attentions. “I seem to remember you having a bed,” he murmured.

“It comes with a disgruntled tabby and several rare manuscripts,” Arden volunteered, throat vibrating against Valory’s lips.

“Well.”

With that he stepped away, spinning around to make quick work of cleaning the bunk. Mizzen was scooped up and deposited in the cabin’s lone chair with a resentful meow. The rest of the papers were cheerfully swept onto the floor.

“You will be cleaning that up,” Arden informed him.

“Tomorrow. Priorities,” Valory said, swooping in for another kiss. Arden met him halfway, teeth clicking, hips hitching. Valory’s clever fingers had unbuckled Arden’s belt, dropping it and its associated weaponry to the ground with a clang. His own belt followed next. Arden finally managed to wrest the shirt from his shoulders, running his hands over the muscled lines of Valory’s torso over and over.

“Yes,” he finally agreed, breaking the kiss in order to push Valory backwards onto the bunk. “Priorities.” Valory let himself topple. Arden was on him in an instant, straddling his hips and tearing his own shirt off over his head.

“Vambraces. Leggings. Boots. Off,” Valory said, rattling off a list of the offending items that they still wore.

“Gods yes,” Arden agreed, unbuckling his own vambraces and tossing them over his shoulder. The boots came next; they were relatively easy to yank off in the position he was in. He made quick work of Valory’s as well before dropping forward to plant a hand on either side of Valory’s face.

“Leggings,” Valory murmured.

“Mmm,” Arden hummed, rolling his hips down.

Valory arched nearly off of the bed, blaspheming beautifully. “Leggings, now,” he ordered.

The command wrested a groan from Arden’s throat. He struggled to undo his lacings one-handed, hips rocking ceaselessly. With Valory’s help he was able to untie the knot and push them down past his hips. “Val,” he whispered as the man reached for him. “ _Fángon,_ you tease,” he swore.

“Take them off,” Valory insisted, pulling at the fabric that was now trapped around Arden’s knees.

“Working on it.” He shifted his weight, all too happy to comply. He hadn’t realized how close to the edge of the bunk he was, however, and almost toppled backwards onto the floor in the process. Valory caught him by the biceps.

“Careful, there,” he warned, voice thick with suppressed laughter.

“Budge over, I’m,” Arden’s breath hitched at Valory’s touch, “I’m about to fall off again,” he finished, a breathless chuckle escaping his lips.

Valory obliged, scooting backward with a wiggle that, for all of its gracelessness, felt damnably good. Arden made quick – if awkward – work of (finally) stripping his leggings down to his ankles, kicking them off and caring little for where they landed. He dropped back down, fitting his hips to Valory’s once more. The fabric was not half as good as bare skin would have been, but –

“Enjoying yourself?” Valory growled. His hands slid down from Arden’s hips to grope at his backside, pulling him closer.

“Tremendously,” Arden grinned.

With a muttered curse Valory surged forward, flipping Arden onto his back. Arden supposed it would have been a rather impressive maneuver had Valory not thumped his forehead so soundly against a shelf in the process. Arden snorted, pulling him down to press a series of kisses to the tender point of contact. “How many times is that, now?”

“Your vessel just has it in for me, doesn’t she?” Valory asked, voice muffled against Arden’s neck. “Now get these damn trousers off of me or so help me—”

“What, don’t fancy coming in your pants?”

“Arden,” Valory admonished, trying and failing to keep the mirth from his voice.

Arden reached down to help Valory fiddle with his own laces, embarrassed at how his hands were shaking. He grinned in triumph when the slipknot came apart in his hands, sitting up as Valory shifted to shuck off the trousers. It was easy enough after that to flip the man onto his back once more, pinning his wrists above his head. He rewarded Val with a cheeky smile for his compliance as he looked his fill. Valory was well-muscled, strong, with dark hair splashed across his chest and down. His skin was marked by scars and sun lines: the map of a life drawn out across the contours of his torso.

Arden admired the imperfect, perfect body stretched out beneath him for a few quiet moments before bending his head to lick the long line of an old scar on Valory’s shoulder. Valory’s back arched attractively, murmured sounds of approval falling from his lips.

They continued like that for several minutes, Arden mapping bumps and scars with his lips as Valory rocked up into him, sighing and whispering words of encouragement. He wished that he had enough time to properly explore the body in front of him, to memorize every mark and line and blemish – but that was not how things were between them, and it wouldn’t do to delay any longer. _Alright, enough of this_ , he thought, pressing his knees between Valory’s own. Valory’s thighs parted obediently even as he pulled his wrists from Arden’s grasp, lowering his hands to cradle Arden’s hips. Arden took the hint, rocking forward once more; Valory’s head tipped back with a gasp before he answered with a thrust of his own.

“That’s it,” he said.

“Yes,” Arden hissed, delighting in the pressure, the slide of skin against skin. They fell into a stuttering rhythm. Though it was a bit disjointed – as things always were when taking a new lover to bed – it was good; “So good,” Arden whispered. Valory surged up to capture his lips in another kiss, messy and slow and wonderful. Arden didn’t often offer up such intimacies, and was surprised that Valory would be the one to solicit them.

Valory, he learned, was also the sort to smile through the little awkward moments; he didn’t seem to mind when Arden’s knees knocked him or his hair got in his mouth. Giving and receiving pleasure with a new body had never felt less stilted.

Arden pulled away from the kiss, resting their foreheads together. Valory stared up at him, eyes alight with humor and desire. Valory was looking _at_ him, not through him. He had no intention of seeking an anonymous coupling with the grim determination Arden was accustomed to (and, if he were honest, typically preferred). That knowledge filled Arden’s breast with traitorous warmth. He should have known that they would be well matched in this, as well. How could he ever have thought otherwise? This was Val, after all.

Something about that thought made his blood run warmer, made the pleasure washing through him all the more acute. _Val_ , Arden thought, almost afraid to say the name aloud. It was Valory – his friend, his commander, his Prince –with him, finally finding the rhythm in their formerly mismatched movements. It was Valory pressing his face into the crook of his neck, Valory making the little pained noises that Arden would never have suspected of the man. No token show of stoicism, no attempt to play at indifference.

It was Valory he had desired, Valory who touched him without shame, Valory who pressed his lips feverishly against Arden’s neck as they rocked together. It was Valory’s hands that skimmed down his back over and over in a shaky caress. Arden could feel the tremor and twitch in Valory’s thighs and the stutter in his hips. He was so close. “Val,” he finally whispered, lips brushing the shell of Valory’s ear.

Words and words began to tumble out of Valory’s mouth as though the sound of his own name had burst a dam in the back of his throat. He threw his head back against the pillow, fingers digging into Arden’s spine, whispering his name like a mantra.

Arden decided that watching Valory fracture beneath him was possibly the most erotic thing he had ever seen. _He said my name_ , Arden thought, somewhat stunned. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard his true name said in such a way. In fact, he was almost positive he never had. To think that it was Valory who said it—

That thought sent him over the edge. He shook, dazed, as firefish swam before his eyes.

He collapsed on top of Valory, remaining there for a heartbeat before rolling to one side. A minute ticked by, then two. He felt his breathing return to normal, felt the sweat begin to cool and dry on his skin. He let himself drift in the hazy afterglow of pleasure, reveling in the feel of Valory’s fingers carding lazily through his hair. This was new as well; he usually had little desire to lie around after the act. _I’m already growing far too attached_.

He shut his eyes, committing the moment to memory before making a concerted effort to drop off to sleep. He had made a decision of dubious wisdom, and had no desire to contemplate the ramifications – alone or out loud – for at least another few hours. His growing attachment to the Prince made that doubly true.

Letting out a final sigh of contentment, Arden slept.

…

Arden woke for the change of the watch, a habit he owed to many years at sea. It took him a few moments to gain his bearings – he wasn’t used to the near-total darkness that shrouded his cabin – and pushed instinctively against the warm weight flung across one of his legs. After a moment of disorientation, however, memory came flooding back. He was in his bunk. It was the night before the battle at Illen’s Arm. One of Valory’s legs was pressed between his own. The Prince’s chest rose and fell rhythmically, his handsome face peaceful in sleep.

With a worried frown, Arden propped himself up on his elbows. He had expected to wake up alone. Though Valory was always easy company, Arden didn’t doubt that he had fallen asleep quite by accident; even the most personable of partners wouldn’t delight in waking next to a fellow sailor on the day of battle.

He debated his options while allowing himself the luxury of studying the Prince’s sleeping form. Valory slept on his back, one arm draped across his chest, the other bent behind his head. A slight smile curved his lips upwards as his eyes moved beneath his eyelids, tracking dream objects. Arden wondered what he was dreaming about.

 _It would be so fine a thing, to turn and touch him. To run my lips along that scar there and down, until he woke under my ministrations_. The thought sprang to his mind unbidden – the sort of fantasy he rarely had. Arden shook his head in an attempt to dislodge it. _Unwise_. He let out a silent sigh. In the past he had always found sharing his bunk to be an unpleasant experience. Much to his annoyance, sharing one with Valory proved to be quite the opposite. He rolled his eyes. _Of course it’s pleasantly different – that is, until we have to dance around the wretched awkwardness that will come when he wakes._

He had no desire to tiptoe around Valory the morning of battle. Perhaps it would be easier if he left the Prince to sleep in his cabin, and retreated to the deck; he had slept comfortably on the foredeck many times in the past. When another minute passed and Valory showed no sign of waking, Arden made his decision. It was the best possible solution, even if it did mean he would have to attempt to climb over the sleeping man’s body without disturbing his rest.

Arden slid out from underneath Valory’s leg before pushing himself up into a crouch. He picked his way over Valory’s thighs, stilling every time the man shifted in sleep. He swung a leg off of the bunk ever so gently, toes straining for the edge of his sea chest. His balance was off, however, causing him to nudge Valory’s shoulder as he slid down. Valory stirred, reaching an arm out towards the side of the bed where Arden had lain. He woke as soon as his arm encountered empty space, turning and noticing that Arden was already halfway off of the bunk. Reaching out, he stopped Arden’s progress by circling a thumb and forefinger around his wrist.

“Is it time?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

“No, it’s still the middle of the night. I was leaving you to your rest.”

The confusion in Valory’s tone was obvious. “This is your cabin. I hope you do not imagine that your presence disturbs my rest,” Valory frowned.

“I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, I must be on deck in three hours.”

“That is long enough to justify returning to sleep.”

“My Lord,” Arden protested, wincing as he inadvertently reverted back to the use of titles.

Valory picked up on it, of course. “If you don’t desire my company, you must say so. If that is not the case and you’re operating under some ridiculous notion that I’m still here by accident, disabuse yourself of it and come back to bed. You’ll need your strength for the morrow.”

Arden gaped at the Prince for a moment before crawling back over the man’s legs and settling down on the empty half of the bunk. “You—well. Alright. If that is your wish.”

Valory let out a long sigh, rolling again to lie on his back. “I enjoy your company. I thought I made that rather obvious.”

“’Obvious’ is subjective, particularly in the face of complicating factors,” Arden replied, gesturing at their disrobed, disheveled state.

“We are both men of our years: too old to tiptoe around such matters like midshipmen. If I wanted to find relief in silence and wake alone in the morning, well – I have my hand for that.”

Arden snorted out a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive my escape attempt, then. I don’t often—”

“If you say ‘mix business with pleasure’—”

“How unoriginal do you think my wordplay? No, I was going to say ‘associate with my fellows’. No less euphemistic, far less trite.”

“Mmm. Your profession has its drawbacks, I suppose.”

“Up until quite recently it was more the implicit lie that gave me pause,” Arden admitted. He’d had lovers murmur his assumed name in his ear before. He’d always found it jarring.

“I’ve had quite the opposite issue.”

“No doubt your title is to thank for that.”

“In part, yes,” Valory said, rolling to face him. “It would be unseemly to go looking for company every time I had an itch that needed scratching. Granted, that didn’t bother me much when I was a young man, but tastes change. I’ve found that seeking relief with another is often more trouble than it’s worth if there is nothing more to be had from it. I understand, however, that it often means that I seek what my partners might not be willing to give.”

“Common courtesy?” Arden asked, a self-deprecating lilt to his voice.

“I’ll settle for half of your impossibly small bunk,” Valory clarified, “if I’m still welcome to it.”

This wasn’t what Arden had expected. He felt his lips pull up in a satisfied grin. “I hadn’t meant to imply otherwise.” A huge yawn punctuated the statement.

“Sleep. We’ll need it.” Valory’s argument was supported by a yawn of his own.

Arden rolled towards the bulkhead, punching the pillow once to fluff it before laying down his head. Behind him, Valory shifted. Arden nearly jumped in surprise as Valory pressed into him, curving flush around his back. One of Valory’s arms draped across his waist in an easy embrace, palm and fingers splayed across his stomach. Arden’s breath hitched as he felt lips press a kiss to the back of his neck. A nose nuzzled into his hair. Valory’s quiet sigh of contentment gusted across his cheek.

“G’night,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound near to sleep himself.

Arden forced himself to relax, a contented sigh escaping his traitorous lips. He doubted he would find sleep anytime soon, what with the speed at which his thoughts were spinning. What were they doing? Arden was more than willing to admit that he was out of his depth. He hadn’t shared a true lover’s embrace in years, but was having trouble classifying their snug pose as anything else.

If Arden was honest with himself, he enjoyed the cozy position they found themselves in, but was worried that, considering the tightness he felt in his chest, this was due to motivating factors that lay well outside the realm of physical pleasure. _You knew getting into this that it would be a dangerous thing, given your friendship with the man_ , he berated himself. Friendship, right. Admiration, affection –

Valory’s thumb began to trace absentminded circles around his navel. Arden was recognized it as a sign that the Prince was deep in thought. The idle caresses were doing Arden no favors, however; they kept him far from the edge of sleep and prompted the images tumbling through his mind to take on a significantly more carnal slant.

Valory must have felt his heart rate speed up, for his hand stilled on Arden’s stomach. “Am I keeping you from your rest?” he murmured, shifting.

Arden bit back a groan. “Of course not.”

“Alright,” Valory murmured, either ignoring the sarcasm or missing it entirely. A moment later he dropped another kiss to the back of Arden’s neck.

Arden groaned aloud this time, giving in and rolling over in Valory’s arms. If the man thought him forward, well – it would hardly be the first time. He had already done enough idiotic things that night that he doubted this would even rank.

Valory, _damn the man_ , had the gall to look amused. “Not planning on sleeping, then?” he asked, raising a brow as Arden’s hand slid up to rest in the center of his chest. Valory’s arms tightened around them, pulling Arden closer until their foreheads touched. Arden’s hand glided down between their bodies, slowly bumping over the muscles in Valory’s abdomen. He circled Valory’s navel with his thumb, a teasing imitation of Valory’s mindless caresses, before moving to play at the crease of his hip.

“If you’re going to look so smug, you have to at least earn it,” Arden muttered.

His response was a crushing kiss as Valory surged forward, pressing him back towards the bulkhead. They toppled back and forth, twisting the sheets beneath them quite spectacularly until Arden wound up on top again, straddling Valory’s thighs and nipping at the muscle between neck and shoulder. It took two insistent wiggles on Valory’s part before he realized how close they were to toppling to the floor. He murmured an apology and shifted, allowing Val to get the bunk back beneath both of his shoulders once more. And really, he should have expected the snarky remark –

“For Illen’s sake, you’d think they’d make these wider,” Valory said, fingers digging into the ruined sheets.

“For what, the sake of encouraging a sailor’s debauchery?”

“Just so,” Valory said, the words coming out strangled.

“I’m sure the shipwright will appreciate the suggestion,” he said. ~~~~

Valory let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-moan before bucking his hips, throwing Arden off balance and flipping him over onto his back. He settled between Arden’s parted thighs before meeting his mouth with a kiss that clicked their teeth together. Arden soon found his hands pinned above his head by one of Valory’s own, a neat reversal of their position from earlier on in the night. From the hungry look in the other man’s eyes, he figured that Valory could tell exactly how much he enjoyed it.

“Mm,” Valory hummed returning Arden’s attentions tenfold. “You know, from the rumors I’ve heard about the man – he just might.”

“Wha—?” Arden asked, commanding his eyes to focus.

Valory’s grin was sharp. “The shipwright, Arden. Do try to keep up.”

“Oh Gods,” Arden managed. Valory had turned his attention to the business of unraveling him piece by piece, and there wasn’t anything quite like being the recipient of Valory’s single minded focus; each shift and move seemed calculated to make Arden throw his head back and melt into the bunk, incoherent murmurs and whispers vibrating in his throat. Valory kissed his way up Arden’s chest until his lips rested against Arden’s Adams apple.

“Look at me,” he whispered against Arden’s throat. ~~~~

Arden gasped, forcing his eyes open to meet the intense stare that Valory leveled at him. Their eyes locked, and that was it – he was lost, chanting something that sounded like Val’s name. ~~~~

He lowered his hands, skimming them across Valory’s skin with a low, contented groan. Valory’s eyes snapped back to Arden’s face as he took him in hand. Arden drank in the sight of the man above him; color high in his cheeks, hair hanging around his face in disarray, lips parted. ~~~~

Valory was staring at him, an open sort of expression on his normally grim face. “Arden,” he murmured, an entreaty. Arden swallowed hard, feeling affection and adoration claw their way up through his breast to stop up the back of his throat. It was too much. He shut his eyes, surging upward to capture Valory’s lips with his own before flipping them over again, nearly taking an elbow to the ribs in the process.

Rhythm unfaltering, Arden trailed biting kisses across Valory’s jaw, over the arch of his neck, and down the line of his sternum. Valory gasped, hips bucking, as he dipped his tongue into the man’s navel before swerving to lave at the hollow of Valory’s hip. He risked a glance up and saw that Valory was propped up on his elbows, watching him intently, helpless little noises escaping his lips.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips against skin, before biting right at the point of Valory’s hipbone.

It was. Valory’s back arched, arms giving out as he thudded onto the mattress.

As Valory’s breathing returned to normal, Arden realized that he had been lavishing attention on the point of his hip for some time. Leaving off with a soft kiss he pulled back, grimacing when he saw the deep red mark he had left behind. _So much for bedroom etiquette_. He dared a furtive peek up towards the pillow where Valory was regarding him with a lazy smile.

“Apologies,” he said, running a thumb over the bruised flesh.

“Arden,” Valory murmured, a hand coming up to cup at his cheek, “I find I quite like the idea of it – of carrying it with me to battle in the morning. A second talisman, a mark from my Steward.”

Arden’s heart lurched at the words. Valory seemed too hazily pleased to realize what he had said. The words hit far too close to the mark, pushing Arden’s thoughts into dangerous territory. He looked up at Valory warily, an expression that Valory immediately set to soothing with gentle touches over his stubbled jaw, his temples, his cheekbones. Arden relaxed at the gentle ministrations, allowing Valory to coax him up to rest his head half upon shoulder, half upon pillow. After a moment’s hesitation, he pressed a leg between Valory’s knees and wrapped an arm around his chest.

Valory sighed contentedly, pressing a brief kiss to Arden’s brow. “Thank you, for this.”

“What?”

“For offering such comfort to me.”

“Oh. Of course,” Arden said. Valory was _thanking_ him?

After a long pause – long enough that Arden was beginning to wonder whether or not Valory had dropped off to sleep – Valory whispered, “I so rarely touch others, Arden – except in violence.”

“When you are in Armathia, though . . . your intended . . .?”

“My acquaintance with Lady Sybina is a matter of duty.”

“Ah.” Arden hadn’t known that. “But a Prince of Oceana must have a plethora of admirers.”

“A lass in every port? That’s more the way of a sailor, I think.”

“Well,” Arden said, a forced laugh sticking in his throat, “you know that I hardly have a lass in every port.”

“You prefer the lads.”

“I know that’s considered unusual for men of our caste,” Arden replied. “There are some who find equal pleasure in the company of each sex, but . . .”

“Not you.”

“No.”

“Then we have that in common as well. I find that I prefer the company of my fellow soldiers and sailors. Especially sailors so fine as this one,” Valory murmured, the heel of his hand skimming over the muscles in Arden’s chest.

Arden, for his part, made a strangled noise, craning his neck to see the Prince’s face.

“You sound surprised,” Valory observed

“Soldiers and sailors do not often pay one another compliments,” he said, eyes searching Valory’s face. “They avoid such matters with alacrity. They would not have their words taken as—”

“A token of affection?”

“Yes.”

Valory huffed out a sigh, pulling Arden closer still, winding a lock of hair around the knuckle of his forefinger. The familiarity of the gesture brought a slow smile to Arden’s face. “I hold you in high regard. I speak the simple truth, for you are a well-made man. If that causes you discomfort, I will not say such things.”

“You’ll have to forgive my surprise; I had wondered whether tonight’s decisions would change where we stood with one another. You are my Prince, of course, my commander—”

“Your friend, I’d hope.”

Arden let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Yes, that.”

“Brother-in-arms.”

“These days.”

“Fellow sailor.”

“Or so you claim,” Arden teased, eyes creasing at the corners. They were quiet for a moment, staring at one another in the darkness, smiling.

“I have told you my best-kept secret, now – something my men and few others know,” Valory said, winding a second lock of Arden’s hair around his knuckle.

“Your preferences.”

“Yes. And although I do not wish to be the cause of your discomfort – or, Gods forbid, to sound as though I am demanding something of you – I refuse to play at indifference. You were not wrong, earlier. My easy compliment which unnerved you so was borne of no small amount of affection.”

“Oh,” Arden said, watching as Valory chose his next words.

“I told you before that I rarely seek relief without a bit of sentiment at the heart of it. I prize your companionship a great deal, and feel I would probably prize it even more still, as time passed, if that were such a thing to which you might acquiesce.”

“You would want to share my company again,” Arden surmised.

“I would if it would please you.”

Arden barely took a moment to consider the Prince’s words, pushing down the voice in the back of his mind informing him that this was a terrible idea that could only end in uncomfortable silences and bitter disappointment. It would be impossible to fool himself into believing that he didn’t want what Valory was offering, and more difficult still to turn it down in the name of practicality.

_Sod it, why bother doing things by halves?_

“It would please me very much,” he said, allowing Valory to tug him forward for a slow, affectionate kiss.

“Good,” Valory rumbled against his lips.

Arden smiled. “Now perhaps we might want to make an attempt at getting some of that sleep you were on about earlier. By my estimation, we have another few hours to our name.”

“Wise counsel as always – though I would appreciate it if you would shift off of my arm, as I can no longer feel my fingers.”

“Apologies,” Arden chuckled as they turned, rearranging themselves and trying to make some sense of the twisted bedclothes beneath them.

Eventually – after the delivery of several elbows and knees to various tender bits – they managed to find a comfortable position, mirroring the way they had laid before Arden gave up on sleep the last time. Both on their sides, Arden curled around Valory’s back, shifting in close to drape a protective arm around his waist.

“Comfortable?” he murmured into Valory’s neck.

“Mmm,” Valory agreed as sleep began to tug at the edges of their minds.

Soon the only sound in the cabin was that of slow, rhythmic breathing. Mizzen, finally certain that it was safe to emerge from her hiding spot beneath the bunk, leapt onto the desk. She flicked her tail disdainfully in the direction of the occupied bunk where two men lay tucked together, peaceful in sleep, limbs intertwined.

“Meow,” she said to the silent cabin. It seemed that Arden, in spite of his fears, was not such an idiot after all.

…

Arden woke again of his own volition, sailors’ instincts informing him that it was time to rise. It took him a few moments to realize that the warmth at his back was not part of some vestigial dream. They must have rolled during the night. He let out a quiet breath. Valory’s hand stilled where it had been tracing absentminded patterns over his sternum.

“Good morning,” a deep, sleep-rough voice rumbled in his ear.

“What time is it?” he asked muzzily as a brief kiss was placed on the corner of his jaw.

“Time to wake. Your instincts are very precise.”

Arden rolled to face the Prince. It was strange, observing his face from this angle. Strange, yet welcome. “Did you sleep at all?”

“I did – deeply, in fact. I only woke a few minutes ago when Ehrin began banging about in the galley,” he said, hand sliding down to Arden’s hip where the tip of his thumb stroked the crease between bone and muscle.

For a moment Arden found himself at a loss for words. This was hardly the outcome he had anticipated when issuing the invitation on the foresail gaff. Memories from the night before began to return, however, and he felt a smile tug at his lips when he recalled Valory’s ready, breathless laughter as they fell together. “I’m glad I could help,” he finally replied.

Valory kissed him again, chuckling into his mouth. “You might just render Little’s sleeping droughts obsolete.”

Arden returned the kiss, still smiling. He should have known it would be like this; mirth always simmered just beneath Valory’s oft-grim expressions. He was frequently the one to force that mirth up to the surface, after all. Besides, they worked together so well in other aspects, why not in this?

The shuffle of feet outside the cabin moved to the quarterdeck. Arden knew it for Callum’s anxious pacing. “We should make ready,” he murmured.

Valory pulled away, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. He regarded the cabin with a snort of amusement. “It seems we were in a hurry.”

“What—oh,” Arden said, observing how papers and items of clothing were strewn haphazardly about, resting where they had landed the night before.

Valory hopped down off of the bunk and began to gather his scattered belongings, retrieving his vest from the corner of one of Arden’s bookshelves. Arden joined him, shuffling his papers into a pile and trying to locate a washcloth. His search bore no fruit, and so he decided to sacrifice the ruined dress shirt he had split at the seams the other night. He dunked a sleeve in the pitcher that sat at his bedside and wiped at his face and neck before moving on to scrub his stomach. They hadn’t neatened up the night before, and evidence of their activities had dried on his skin and begun to itch.

“May I?” Valory asked, voice dropping into a register that Arden now recognized all too well. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine as the shirt was pried from his hands.

The cloth rubbed at the line of hair below his navel before wiping down a hip and along the inside of his thigh. “No more,” he murmured, reclaiming the ruined shirt. He dunked it again before stepping forward and running the dripping cloth across Valory’s chest and down, mimicking his ministrations. He paid special attention to the mark on Valory’s hip – _my mark_ , he thought, something twisting in his stomach at the thought.

“Mmm,” Valory hummed, head dropping to Arden’s shoulder as he worked, leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses along his collarbone.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Arden muttered, heart clenching at the open display of affection. He wouldn’t have expected it from the man despite how tactile they always were around one another.

“Don’t say that,” Valory admonished, eyes bright in the grey pre-dawn light. “Not today.”

“Alright,” Arden conceded, dropping the sodden shirt onto the floor between them. “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, all things considered.” He hesitated for a moment before giving into impulse and kissing Valory by way of apology, slow and thorough and full of all of the things he couldn’t put to words.

At length they pulled away from one another. “We should dress.”

“Yes,” Arden agreed, stepping back and grabbing the nearest pair of leggings.

Valory made quick work of finding and donning all of his clothing. He was pulling his hair back into a queue by the time Arden located his own shirt, and was strapping his belt back on while Arden rooted around beneath his bunk for his leather vest.

“Here, this is yours,” Valory said, plucking up one of Arden’s vambraces from where it had been dropped the night before.

Arden reached up to take it and was surprised when Valory clasped his hand and pulled him back to his feet. “Val?” he asked, watching the Prince’s fingers run over the vambrace, outlining the shape of the sun stamped into worn leather.

“Come here,” he said, turning Arden’s arm over and sliding the vambrace neatly on over his shirtsleeve. He bowed his head, placing a lingering kiss to the inside of Arden’s wrist before neatly buckling the vambrace in place. “Be safe,” he murmured. Arden thought the words sounded almost like a prayer.

He tried to move after Valory released his grip, but the man stilled him with a hand. The hand was busy trying to wrest Arden’s second vambrace from Mizzen, who had been toying with the buckles. She gave it up after a few insistent tugs, offering another irritated meow before hopping off the chair and disappearing beneath Arden’s bunk. Arden swallowed hard as the ritual was repeated: the vambrace fit in place, the kiss to the pulse point in his wrist, the entreaty and command – “be safe.”

He swallowed. Valory’s eyes were dark as they watched him over his upturned forearm. He hadn’t anticipated anything like this when he had allowed himself the luxury of imagining what it would be like to share a night with Val. He should have known better. Valory didn’t do anything by halves, either.

Valory stepped away, locating his own vambraces halfway underneath Arden’s desk. He made a move to buckle them, but Arden stopped him. “No,” he said, stilling Valory’s hands before the first strap was done. He rubbed a thumb against the tender skin of Valory’s wrist, feeling his pulse jump at the contact. He had a thousand things he wanted to say, but settled for mimicking Valory’s ritual. “Be safe.” Valory’s breath hitched as lips replaced fingers. Arden made quick work of the buckles before repeating the steps with the other arm. “Be safe,” he murmured. His lips quirked against Valory’s wrist. “Try not to get shot at this time,” he added.

Valory’s smile was more open and honest than Arden was accustomed to. “I’ll make an attempt,” he promised, “though I rather think I should demand the same of you.”

A knock on the door startled both of them.

“Jack?” Ehrin asked. “The call’s out for all hands. We’re to haul up the anchor and break our fast underway.”

“Thank you, Ehrin. I’m almost dressed – I’ll be up in a moment.”

They waited until they heard her footsteps fade away before moving. “I have to fetch a few things from the fo’c’sle. I’ll see you on deck,” Valory murmured, taking Arden’s face in his hands and kissing him again.

“On deck,” Arden echoed as Valory stepped away, opening the door and disappearing out into the salon. _Illen, keep him safe_ , Arden thought, bowing his head in quiet supplication before shrugging on his vest, strapping on his cutlass, and following his Prince topside.


	12. Chapter 12

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 15; 2421_

Edgar took over the helm of the _Madesta_ , brushing off his coxswain with a wave of his hand. He shifted, bearing himself up on the balls of his feet. The Westernese Commodore was a tall man who, according to the Prince, had done his own maneuvers. Edgar had gone to the trouble of donning the Commodore’s kerosene-soaked coat and powdering his face to disguise his complexion. If playing the part meant taking the helm during combat as well, far be it from him to arouse suspicion in the eleventh hour.

Edgar’s men were playing the part beautifully, waving their caps in greeting as they approached the rear of the Westernese fleet. The attack on Illen’s Arm had just begun; the first of the enemy cutters were beginning their shoreward drive. All of the attention was on the action, just as Lord Arden had suspected. Good.

“What orders, sir?” Gavin asked, appearing at his elbow. In his borrowed jacket, he looked the very picture of a Westernese Lieutenant.

“Run up the flags to hail that brigantine. We’d be an even match if it weren’t for the surprise; I want to take her first. Order them to give way and allow us to pass to port,” Edgar said.

After a tense few moments of waiting during which Edgar was convinced they would be found out, the answering flags went up the brigantine’s halyards. Gavin let out a slow sigh of relief as the brigantine began to fall off the wind, making room for the _Madesta_ to slide into place. “She’s acknowledged the command, sir,” Gavin breathed.

“As we nose up to her stern, I want to strike all but our headsails.”

“Aye, sir,” Gavin nodded before relaying the order. Surveying the anchorage, he realized that the Admiral had picked an ideal target. With the brigantine immobilized, the _Madesta_ would be able to drive a wedge through the center of the Westernese fleet.

Gavin waited at the quarterdeck steps with baited breath, watching the Admiral for the minutest of signs. The defense at Illen’s Arm was balanced upon a knife’s edge of careful timing. They needed to approach as close as they could without tipping their hand.

All eyes in the anchorage were on the _Madesta_ as she began to pull level with the enemy brigantine. Edgar nodded at Gavin, who flashed a series of fingers before pointing his thumb down; the silent sign to quick-drop their aftermost sails. The crew managed the maneuver within seconds. Then, several things happened at once.

First, _Madesta_ ’s momentum dragged her forward until she was beam-to-beam with the enemy brigantine. Edgar’s men threw their hooks just as the Westernese realized that something was terribly wrong. Without so much canvas run, the _Madesta_ no longer shielded the rest of the Kythrian fleet from Westernese eyes. The Captain of the brigantine began to shout, but it was too late. Edgar stripped off the Commodore’s red jacket, revealing the blue-and-gold brocade of the Oceanic navy; his moves were echoed by the rest of the crew, who stripped down to their Oceanic livery. Edgar balled up the jacket and passed it off to Gavin, who shook it out and displayed it over the side like a trophy. As was the plan, one of the firestarters lit it; the kerosene-soaked jacket went up in a flash. Gavin dropped it as the flames climbed up towards his hands, letting the charred remains drop down into the churning water between the two vessels. It was a powerful statement to make.

The impact of the surprise was stunning. A heartbeat of immobile silence passed amongst the Westernese vessels before the officers began to bellow orders at their men. The brigantine was doomed, however; Edgar’s men had already begun boarding. A quick glance astern confirmed that all was going according to plan. _Windjammer_ had sprung from _Madesta_ ’s wake, cutting in between the Westernese vessels in a bid to intercept the longboats sent ashore. _Rhane_ had taken a smaller brig by surprise as well – the vessel was already overrun by Landon’s men. _Pioneer_ had pivoted into position in the mouth of the harbor. Edgar’s own men raided the brigantine with ease; he looked up just in time to watch Gavin take an axe to its steering gear. The Westernese Captain knelt before him, arms raised in surrender. They had taken the bay by storm.

…

“Quit faffing about and throw your hooks!” Arden shouted at a pair of Kythrian soldiers before concentrating on his aim once more. His arrow flew true, catching an enemy oarsman in the shoulder. The cutter had only managed to launch two of its boats before _Windjammer_ arrived on the scene. Arden was hopeful that, given the position the cutter had assumed, its defeat would make it nigh on impossible for any of the other Westernese vessels to take its place.

“Handsomely, lads; let’s tie her off,” Callum ordered from the quarterdeck. Arden lined up another shot, taking out a second oarsman. A dull _whump_ echoed in the distance. He looked up, recognizing the sound. The men at the fort had already manned their catapults. The launched boulder bore down on the longboat closest to shore, splashing mere meters short of its target. The wake was too much for the oarsmen to manage, and the longboat capsized. In the meantime, _Windjammer_ was ready to begin their first boarding.

“To me, to me!” Valory shouted from his position amidships. “Let’s take her quickly, gentlemen. For Kilcoran!”

“For Kilcoran!” the men cried, leaping the narrowing gap between vessels, following their Prince into battle.

Arden nocked another arrow, letting it fly at a Westernese officer. The man crumpled at Valory’s feet. Valory leapt over the body with ease, bringing his broadsword down upon another Westernese sailor with deadly force. The Prince fought like a man possessed, powerful frame wielding his heavy weapon with precision.

The Westernese knew Valory for a commander, at the very least, even if they did not know the meaning of the insignia on his breastplate. They swarmed around him, yet he proved to be no easy target. Valory sliced his way through the throng of sailors towards the quarterdeck, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Arden found himself both awed and horrified by the Prince’s ruthless display of skill. The man’s earlier words echoed in his ears – _‘I so rarely touch others, except in violence’_. How could a man with such an affectionate touch be capable of such efficient slaughter?

Valory was halfway up the quarterdeck steps when he was attacked from both sides. Another of Arden’s perfectly aimed arrows speared one of the attackers between the shoulder blades. The man stiffened and fell, a cry of agony the last thing to escape his lips. Arden did not fail to see the irony in his own thoughts; he was more than capable of killing as well – especially in the name of those who inspired gentle thoughts in him.

He watched Valory dispatch his opponent and turn to face the man who had come up behind him. He regarded the felled sailor with surprised confusion until he noticed the distinct fletching of the arrow that protruded from his back. He spared a moment to salute the _Windjammer_ , fingertips pointing towards the place where Arden crouched behind the standing rig. Battle was gruesome, but Arden couldn’t help the surge of pride he felt at Valory’s acknowledgement of his marksmanship.

Arden nocked another arrow. War was an awful thing, but it was his duty to protect the Prince – a duty he was more than willing to bear. If that created an unwieldy paradox, then so be it; he would sort out the particulars of his feelings later. In the interim, he would allow himself a grim sort of satisfaction for every felled target. The guilt could wait.

Another enemy clipper pulled up alongside _Windjammer_ just as Little began to smash the steering gear of the first. It listed to port; Arden could see the damage done to the beam where it had taken a glancing blow from one of the fort’s many catapults.

Arden swung around, training his aim on the deck of the limping clipper, taking out a burly Westernese sailor who had been about to throw a grapple. _Windjammer_ would be in a bad way with two vessels pulled alongside – even if the first was mostly subdued. Callum was shouting orders from the quarterdeck again, recalling his crew and drawing attention to the newest threat.

 _Six_ , Arden counted as another arrow flew true. He would do his penance later. _Seven. Eight._

…

Imran followed his commander back to the _Windjammer_ , springing elegantly across the gap between vessels. He and Gabe had barricaded the surviving members of the clipper’s crew below deck moments earlier. Such measures were extreme, given the vessel’s newly-wrecked steering gear, but Valory hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

Once the last of the Kythrian soldiers were back aboard, Imran cut the grapples loose, allowing _Windjammer_ to pull away and narrowly avoid a boarding maneuver from their newest threat. He took a moment to glance around the anchorage. Naval warfare was not his strong suit, but even he could plainly see that the Westernese were regrouping. A sloop and a brigantine had bogged the _Rhane_ down in the middle of the anchorage. The _Madesta_ was set upon from all sides; Edgar was ducked behind the helm for cover. Two Westernese schooners were driving _Pioneer_ back towards the point. They were outnumbered two to one and help from the fort was minimal at such a distance.

“Prepare to tack!” Callum bellowed from the helm. Imran ducked, trying to stay out of the way of the sailors as best as he could. Gabe crouched down next to him, face drawn into a mighty frown.

“Ready for another?” Imran asked, rolling his shoulders.

“I am, but are we?” Gabe questioned. “We lost two soldiers on board that clipper.”

“Two? Already?”

“We need the Bightton fleet. I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this.”

 _Windjammer_ ’s bow crossed the wind. Arden jumped down next to them, quiver bouncing on his back as he sheeted out the foresail. “Round two,” he said through gritted teeth, locking off the sheet. “Anyone see Val?”

“Foredeck,” Gabe answered as Imran said,

“Watch him, Steward’s son. He is fighting hard today. He does not think of his safety.”

“Noted.”

“Let’s make this a quick one, lads – she’s limping something fierce!” Callum shouted as they pulled up alongside the enemy vessel.

“Come,” Imran said, springing up to run along Windjammer’s caprail. As soon as the first grapple was thrown he leapt onto the clipper, bearing an enemy sailor down to the deck in the process. He heard the heavy thump of Gabriel landing behind him. A gasp and a gurgle informed him that the young Empath had already dispatched one of his foes. Not to be outdone, Imran crossed his blades and danced into the fray, easily beating back two opponents at once.

“Behind!” Gabe warned him.

Imran whirled, twin blades flashing as he made quick work of the sailor who had attempted to get at his back. Another opponent sprang up in his place almost immediately. Imran sniffed contemptuously before forcing him towards the cap rail with several vicious attacks. “And you fools wonder why you still cow to the rule of Dramor,” he scoffed as his blade bit into the man’s leg, a precision strike that severed a major blood vessel. He would bleed out in less than a minute.

After ensuring that his strike had fallen true, Imran vaulted up the quarterdeck steps, intending to make quick work of the clipper’s officers. Niko and Lars had beaten him to it, however; Niko was hacking at an enemy Lieutenant as Lars went at the gears with a pair of bolt cutters. Imran heard a telltale whistle behind him and ducked instinctively, shouting a warning. Niko, engaged as he was, didn’t move fast enough; the arrow struck the back of his leg and brought him to his knees.

Imran dove forward, intercepting the Westernese Lieutenant’s killing stroke. Scissoring his legs, he kicked the Lieutenant’s ankles out from underneath him, toppling the man to the deck. “Lars!” he shouted as he pounced on the enemy, driving his blade straight through the man’s stomach, “Your man is down!”

Imran sprang to his feet, standing protectively over Niko who rolled on the deck clutching his thigh in agony. Lars was at their side in a few moments, tossing the bolt cutters down to the deck and cursing mightily.

“For Ranael’s sake, don’t yank it,” he snapped, crouching down and staying Niko’s hands.

“Can you get him back to _Windjammer_?”

“If you cover me,” Lars said, clasping Niko’s arm. “Come on now, brother – let’s get you to your feet.”

“Gods,” Niko swore, hopping unsteadily on his good leg.

“Careful, now,” Lars warned him before hefting the smaller man easily over his shoulder.

They made their way back midships together, Gabe in the lead and Imran bringing up the rear. Gabe leapt across the gap first, perching on _Windjammer_ ’s cap rail with an arm out to help steady Lars as he crossed. Lars had just stepped up to ready himself for the jump when Niko began to thrash, pointing down to the gap between the vessels and shouting a warning.

Imran rushed forward just in time. He struck out with his blades before he even registered what he was fighting. Black liquid spurted from the flesh parted by his attack, covering his hands with its icy cold spray. The sea-witch screamed before falling back into the water below. Lars looked up at Imran in horror.

“Go!” Imran shouted as another clawed hand slapped wetly over the cap rail.

Lars didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped back to _Windjammer_ , hustling towards the main companionway with his charge. Imran stabbed at the clawed hand that reached over the bulwark towards him. The hand retracted, but another took its place. For a moment Imran thought he had missed his mark. When two sets of milky, empty eyes appeared over the side, however, he realized that this was not the attack of a hunting witch.

Imran backed up, glancing around wildly. His heart hammered in his chest. The sea frothed; hundreds of witches were rising up from the depths. He struck out at the two witches in front of him automatically, fighting hard against the cold terror that clutched at his breast. When they fell, another witch immediately took their place. Imran backed up again, catching sight of a Westernese sailor out of the corner of one eye. He spun, engaging the man and attempting to thrust him towards the side of the boat like a human shield. Caught off guard, the sailor stumbled right into the path of the oncoming witch. Imran gaped when the witch brushed the man carelessly aside before continuing its advance in Imran’s direction. Fear made his thoughts quick, and so it only took him a heartbeat to realize what was going on.

The witch pressed Imran backwards, warding off his blades with its massive talons. It all but ignored the Westernese sailor Imran had tried to use as a decoy. The sea-witches weren’t using the battle as a hunting opportunity. They were a part of the battle to begin with.

The sea-witches were allied with the Westernese.

…

“They’re creatures of the deep, they shrink from fire!” Valory shouted, felling a witch on the foredeck of the _Windjammer_ with a single, vicious stroke. “Call for the firestarters!”

Sea-witches. How could they have predicted this? Sea-witches hadn’t taken part in the affairs of men in over a thousand years, yet here they were: allied with the Westernese in an attempt to overrun Illen’s Arm. Valory dispatched two more with practiced efficiency. An agonizing wail caught his attention. He looked towards the enemy clipper in time to see one of the Kythrian soldiers overwhelmed by three witches. Valory turned away, stomach churning.  Sea-witches did not do men the honor of a quick killing stroke; they preferred to rip their prey limb from limb. The soldier was not yet dead when they began to feast upon his flesh.

A flash of light lit up the deck to his right, followed by the hissing screeches of several witches, cowering as though blinded by the flame. _Arden_. The Steward’s son was fighting brilliantly, skin and hair streaked with the black blood of enemy witches. _Keep him safe, keep him safe,_ Valory chanted to himself, fighting his way down to midships. They were being overwhelmed. _If we do not receive reinforcements soon . . ._

Arden had since discarded his bow and quiver in favor of his cutlass and knife. Despite his obvious skill, it was clear that he was beginning to tire. _As are we all_ , Valory thought, running another witch through with a grunt. He spared a quick glance towards the mouth of the harbor. _Nothing. At this rate, the Bightton fleet will not arrive in time. Forgive me father. Forgive me mother. Forgive me Siath._ Valory forced his way down towards Arden. If it was to end this way – against sea-witches no less – he would at least go down with Arden at his side.

Another flash distracted the two witches that crawled between them, upright on their sinewy slithering tails. Valory made quick work of them before falling into place behind Arden, back-to-back in a defensive pose.

“Where are they, Gods-dammit?” Arden shouted, voice cracking in desperation.

“They’ll be here,” Valory replied, sounding far surer than he felt.

“We’re running out of time. There are too many,” Arden said through gritted teeth, running one witch through with his cutlass while slashing at another with his knife.

“Keep holding on. We’re almost there – _ah_!”

“Val?”

“It’s nothing – I’m fine,” Valory lied. For a brief moment he thought he had been struck; the side of his face felt as though it were on fire. It was no fresh wound that plagued him, however – it was his old scar.

“We need to get up to higher ground. We could make a stand on the quarterdeck. Can you see Callum?” Arden asked.

Valory risked a glance aft. “He’s still fighting.” He cursed again as the throbbing of his scar intensified. Valory was no stranger to pain, but this was something different – it felt as though his nerves were all aflame.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“You _don’t know_?”

“My scar, I – something’s wrong,” he managed, kicking the corpse of yet another felled witch aside.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You—” Arden cut off with a gasp.

“Arden?” Val asked. He couldn’t turn; three witches were advancing upon him from the midships housetop.

“Oh _GodsohGodsohGods_ ,” Arden chanted, his words interrupted by a menacing hiss.

Arden saw the writing mass of blue-black tentacles first as they strained and grasped for anything within reach. The rest of the witch’s body followed, far larger than any of its brethren. Its tail undulated, carrying it up and over the side. Soulless eyes regarded him hungrily. Arden swung his cutlass immediately but the blade was intercepted and wrenched from his grasp by the witch’s fierce claws. He snapped out with his enchantment instead, sparking the air between them in an attempt to drive the creature backwards. To his astonishment, the witch advanced further, baring rows of jagged teeth in a menacing grin.

“Arden, answer me,” Valory growled, leveling one of his opponents.

Arden stumbled backwards, bumping into Valory from behind. “It’s him. It’s the Sea-Witch King.”

“Get back,” Valory ground out. Another witch fell with a cry.

“I’m not about to leave your back unguarded,” Arden retorted, brandishing his knife in front of him. He dodged the first swipe of the Sea-Witch King’s claws, and intercepted the second with his knife. He looked up at the monstrous face before him, grunting with the effort of holding onto his weapon. He could swear that the clicking sounds the monster made were laughter.

Arden saw the tentacle unfurl itself from the Witch King’s head, but couldn’t move quickly enough to avoid it. He let out a choked gasp as the tentacle wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air. The pain was blinding, white-hot, shooting up and down his body.

Valory felled his final opponent and turned. “Arden!” he shouted, voice breaking. Arden was gasping and struggling, trying to stay standing on his tiptoes else be strangled.

The Sea-Witch King grinned madly at Valory, backhanding him soundly. It was only good fortune that prevented him from being knocked overboard; his shoulder slammed into a davit and he fell to the deck.

“Val—” Arden choked out, eyes desperate. He tried to light another fire between them to no avail. The creature clicked again, mocking him, empty eyes boring into his own.

That was when the noise began; shrill screams at a pitch that made Valory clutch at his head in agony. He dragged himself to his feet, looking around wildly in an attempt to determine the source of the earsplitting noise. His eyes lit upon the sight at the mouth of the harbor: sails and sails and sails. The Bightton fleet had finally come.

Valory spun, hefting his broadsword above his head. The Sea-Witch King had not been immune to the momentary distraction. Valory sprang forward, striking before the witch could raise his razor-sharp claws in defense. He severed the tentacle in one stroke, wresting a mighty cry of fury in return. Arden crumpled to his knees, twisting as he fell to stab his rig knife deep into the gelatinous flesh of the Witch King’s muscled tail.

The creature hissed and spat, jerking backwards. Arden scrambled on hands and knees, diving forward with his marlinspike drawn. Before he could land another blow, however, the Sea-Witch King dove over the side and disappeared into the water below. The witches that had remained on the deck of the _Windjammer_ retreated as well, following their wounded King back down to the deep. In the momentary respite that followed Arden collapsed, pulling at the severed tentacle still wrapped around his neck.

Valory fell to his knees beside him, batting Arden’s hands away. “Let me,” he implored, gently prying the tentacle away from the tender flesh of Arden’s throat.

Arden stiffened, fingers digging into the muscles of Valory’s thigh. “ _Fángon_ that stings,” he gasped.

“I don’t have time to dress it now,” Valory frowned, laying a hand over the worst of the welts and hoping that his enchantment would at least allow him to dull the pain somewhat.

“Bloody fish king,” Arden continued swearing, sagging in relief at Valory’s touch. A manic laugh escaped his throat. “That’s the second knife I’ve lost in as many weeks.”

A surge of relief hit Valory, drawing an answering huff of giddy mirth from his lips. He traced the edges of the welts with his fingertips, feeling the heartbeat hammering in Arden’s throat. After a few moments of levity, they both sobered. “I don’t think I would call the knife a total loss,” he said, pulling his hands away from Arden’s neck and rocking back on his heels.

“Perhaps not,” Arden agreed with a wry twist of his lips as Valory dragged him to his feet. He snatched up his fallen cutlass before turning towards the port side of the deck where several telltale splashes indicated that another wave of witches was headed their way.

Before he could pull away entirely, however, Valory caught his wrist, thumb pressing on the crease in leather just above his pulse point. Arden knew the gesture for what it was immediately. “Yes, alright, I see your point. I’ll try not to get myself killed.”

“Come on, then,” Valory said gruffly, dropping his wrist and reaching for his broadsword.

“Time to win the day?”

Valory grinned as the first of the witches appeared over the side. “What else?”

…

The Bightton fleet could not have arrived at a better time. With their leader wounded, the sea-witches slowly withdrew from the battle. Although a score of them still flitted beneath the water’s surface, it was clear that they remained behind to hunt rather than continue with the full scale attack that had been planned.

In the space of only a few minutes the tide turned spectacularly. The beleaguered Kythrian fleet recovered from the ravages of the witches and returned its attention to the business of subduing the Westernese interlopers. _Madesta_ threw off her attackers. _Windjammer_ and _Rhane_ took the vessels they had boarded before the witches appeared. _Pioneer_ came around and joined the Bightton fleet in a dramatic charge. Oceana was winning the day, overwhelming the Westernese vessels from all sides.

“That’s the price one pays for allying with the fickle creatures of the deep,” Edgar said, surveying the scene from the quarterdeck of the _Madesta_.

“A fifth vessel has surrendered, sir,” Gavin reported, pointing to a Westernese schooner on the other side of the bay.

“Run up the flags we spoke about,” Edgar commanded. They had agreed to use the same message that _Windjammer_ had used when taking the _Madesta: surrender or no quarter_.

The other Oceanic vessels ran up their signal flags as well, reinforcing the point. Over the space of a few minutes the fighting slowed, then ground to a halt. One-by-one the remaining Westernese struck their colors and hoisted the white flag of surrender.

“Look sir,” Gavin breathed, eyes locked on movement on the other side of the bay.

 _Windjammer_ had turned off the wind, leaving its most recent conquest in favor of cutting directly across the anchorage. Edgar heard men begin to cheer as Prince Valory himself appeared on the bowsprit, one arm looped around the forestay, the other extended over his head, brandishing his broadsword in triumph.

“For Illen’s Arm!” he shouted, a cry that was eagerly echoed by his people. “For Kilcoran! For Oceana!”

“For Oceana!” the sailors cried, exultant in their hard-won victory. “For Oceana!”

Edgar smiled at his men, the thrill of battle still thrumming in his veins. “There will be much celebration tonight, Gavin.”

“Yes sir,” Gavin beamed. Lord Arden appeared on the bowsprit next to the Prince, fist held high. The cheers only intensified.

“For now, Lieutenant, get the men ready to bring us about. The battle may be over, but there is plenty of work to be done.”

“Aye, sir,” Gavin agreed before relaying the Admiral’s orders. The day had been won. They had shown the Westernese that Oceana was not the type to roll over in defeat, even in the face of great odds.

Whatever evil was plaguing their borders, they would find it. They would challenge it. And if it could not be defeated, then by Illen, they would go down fighting.

It was Oceana’s way.

…

“I knew it would be something, but witches? That I didn’t anticipate,” Arden said. One of the candles on the table flickered in sympathy.

“No one would have predicted such an alliance,” Edgar assured him.

“Perhaps. But it very nearly cost us.”

Behind him the sun was sinking over the horizon. The day had been long, and the celebration brief. There had been many casualties, and nearly all of the vessels from Kythria were damaged – some worse than others. The better part of the afternoon had been spent transporting prisoners, tending the wounded, and seeing to the dead. Arden’s mouth twisted downward. Even the greatest of victories always felt bittersweet.

“Would knowing about the witches have made a difference?” the Kilcoranian Admiral asked.

“We might have lost fewer men in the surprise,” Edgar admitted.

“The blame for that should fall on my shoulders,” Valory said, appearing in the doorway.

“My Lord,” Arden murmured in protest, “it was I who opposed the forceful interrogation of an enemy officer.”

“Yet for all of your counsel, the decision to ease up on the Commodore was still mine.”

Valory sank into the seat to Arden’s left. Together they presented a messy picture: clothing dirty and blood-streaked, shoulders slumped, dark circles smudged beneath their eyes. A line of bruises darkened the Prince’s jaw; angry red welts wrapped around Arden’s neck.

“Is the Commodore talking now?” Edgar asked.

“No,” Valory said. “This is not the first time he has been captured, I think. He is very resistant to interrogation techniques.”

“What of the other Captains?” Landon put in.

“Most were loose-lipped. I’m given to understand that the appearance of the sea-witches was expected, though when pressed about the nature of the alliance, they fell silent. It was a very unsettling thing; some appeared to be making the attempt to speak, but no sound would come out. Gabriel – my Empath – seems to think that the mind-magic of the witches is responsible. He can hear the language of the witches in all of their heads and little else.”

“Disquieting,” Edgar frowned.

“Very,” Valory nodded. “I suspect that another attack might be planned, although we can’t yet say when or where – Gabriel is convinced that none of the men know the details. In the absence of specifics, I think it best to send warnings to all other major ports. Perhaps even to Halen, as well.”

“You are certain Saria is not involved?” the Kilcoranian Admiral asked.

“They are neither ally nor enemy these days, but I rather doubt that they would unite with witches and Westernese.”

“What of Dramor?” Arden asked. “Any more clues as to how they are tied up in this?”

“Nothing explicit, no – although one of the Captains was persuaded to part with some information about relations between Dramor and the city states.”

“Oh?”

“It was vague – Arden, you might get the reference better than I . . . something to the effect of, _‘the Lord of the desert made our Commodore a promise’_. I asked about the nature of the promise and he said it was a promise for all of _Madesta_.”

“Why would the sultan concern himself with the welfare of a Belenese warship?” Edgar asked.

Arden frowned, steepling his fingers. “Madesta is a very old word – ubiquitous in the Western dialects. It is a name that refers to all of the land west of the mountains. The Commodore’s vessel is named for the land. The promise might not have anything to do with the schooner.”

“What sort of promise would Dramor make to the Westernese as a whole? They deal with the states individually for a reason: they have always sought to encourage the fractious nature of the clans,” Valory said.

“Perhaps the sultan was not offering a promise to all of the Westernese, but rather, extending a bribe to the Belenese,” Arden mused. “But what bribe is great enough to entice them to take military action against us – and cooperate with sea-witches?”

“A promise _for_ Madesta, he said. Could the Dramorians be using control over the territories as leverage to have the Belenese do their bidding?”

“If Belen was granted complete control of the Western territories – something which has _never_ before happened, mind you – Dramor would have to relinquish the colonies that keep its economy stable. Is a single attack upon our isles worth such a price?” Arden asked.

“Perhaps the promise has naught to do with the attack,” Valory shrugged.

“The word from the mainland is that there have been more attacks on our desert border as of late. Could Dramor be trying to overrun Oceana completely?” Edgar wondered.

“That still assumes that Dramor somehow had something to do with the appearance of the witches,” Valory pointed out.

“Doubtful,” Arden agreed. “Dramor may have some sort of new agreement with the Westernese, but I’m less inclined to believe that they have reached an accord with sea-witches. The Westernese, on the other hand, obviously have. The question is, how are all three tied together, and which one of them is responsible for all of this?”

Valory groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Whatever they are playing at, they are doing a good job of it. We’ve been talking in circles for _months_ , and everything we learn seems to yield as many questions as answers.”

“While we are in the business of posing unanswerable questions, can I ask how in Fángon’s name the Westernese managed to interest sea-witches in the affairs of men?” the Kilcoranian Admiral added.

“Prince Valory, you implied before that the Captains are having their tongues stayed by the mind-magic of the witches. If that’s the case, then it would seem to me that the witches are dictating the actions of the Westernese, and not the other way around,” Landon said.

“Then how can we explain the involvement of Dramor? The desert-dwellers would never cow to the orders of sea-folk,” Edgar argued.

“Perhaps we are wrong, and the witches were using this battle as an opportunity for a great hunt,” a Kilcoranian Captain offered.

Arden and Valory exchanged a quick look. “I find that unlikely at best,” Arden murmured. “I do not pretend to have easy answers, gentlemen, but I know for a fact that this was a premeditated attack.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I had a brief encounter with the Sea-Witch King. I doubt he would show his face without purpose.”

“Is that what happened to your neck, my Lord?” Landon asked.

“It is.”

“Lord Arden is correct: the Sea-Witch King does not come topside on a whim, nor do I think it coincidence that he chose to appear on board the _Windjammer_ ,” Valory said.

“Do you think he was targeting you, my Lord?” Edgar asked.

“That is what I suspect,” Valory admitted.

“Even a sea-witch must know it is a dangerous act of war to threaten Oceanic royalty,” Landon mused.

“Which is precisely why I consider this to be a grave warning from our enemies. Given the circumstances, we must treat this attack from the witches as though it was condoned by both Belen and Dramor.”

“Dramor has not made an attempt on the life of Oceanic royalty in centuries,” Edgar said. “Something is afoot.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, Admiral, which is why our priority in the upcoming days must be the release of dispatches to all of Oceana’s major ports.”

“We can send a vessel to Armathia before the week is out,” the Kilcoranian Admiral offered.

“That will not be necessary. I will go to Armathia myself,” Valory said. Arden looked up sharply at the announcement. “ _Windjammer_ , as my commission, will bear me there safely. It makes little sense to take a navy escort; if the situation in the isles escalates, you will not have the vessels to spare.”

“What of the prisoners – and the prizes?” Edgar asked.

“We will ransom the prisoners. Send notice to Belen as soon as you are able. I leave the continued interrogation of the officers to you with the understanding that you will forward pertinent information to Armathia. The prizes you may take as your own.”

“And of the Commodore?”

“I will take him to Armathia. He has information we need – I am certain of it. In the meantime, gentlemen, I assume that I do not have to remind you to avoid the use of unnecessary force with enemy officers – even if they would not have shown us the same courtesy in return,” Valory said.

“Of course, my Lord. If I may – when will you depart?” Edgar inquired.

“Arden?” Valory asked.

“We will need to go to Bightton for repairs,” Arden said. “Callum thinks it will be another week before we are ready.”

“Very well. We will arrange to meet again before that; I imagine you will not make a hasty departure either, Edgar, what with the damage sustained by the _Madesta_.”

“You are correct, my Lord.”

“Then let us adjourn for now. It has been a trying day, and I imagine all of us would like some rest. I will see you all in Bightton. Hopefully you will have coaxed more information out of our captives by then,” Valory said, standing.

“If that is your wish, my Lord,” Edgar said, rising and clasping Valory’s arm.

Few more pleasantries were spoken before the meeting disbanded. The officers returned to their vessels in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. They had won the day, yes:  but the cost had been high.

…

“How’s Niko?” Arden asked as Valory and Little emerged from the salon.

“About as well as can be expected. I think we’ve done a good job of preventing infection, but,” Little shrugged. “I’m sure you know I’m not the strongest Healer.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Arden assured him.

“Hope so. Though that reminds me, you should get those welts looked at. They’re nearly as nasty as the ones Imran had, and those took ages to heal.”

“I think I can manage this one, Little,” Valory murmured.

“Yeh?” Little looked back and forth between the two of them. “Well I’ll be off to check on Gabe’s ankle, then. He said he wrenched it something fierce boarding that last clipper.”

Little bid them goodnight before walking off towards the fo’c’sle. Arden and Valory stood silent in the lantern light for a few moments, listening to the hum of activity across all of the decks in the anchorage. As long as the day had been, it seemed as though some of the sailors were loath to put an end to it; the sound of music and laughter drifted to the Windjammer on the wind. Valory turned his head, trying to make out its source. Edgar’s men?

“I don’t know how they do it,” Arden sighed, slumping back onto the midships housetop.

“It’s a distraction.”

“I killed seventeen men today.”

“ _Gods_ , Arden – you counted?”

Arden let his head fall back, staring up at the sky. “I did. If I’m to make that final leap away from what I once believed and place more value upon the lives of my countrymen than the lives of others, well . . . I don’t want to become trapped in the fallacy that the lives of my enemies are worth nothing at all.”

Valory acknowledged this, lying down next to him. “Remembrance honors that, I suppose.”

“It’s all I can do, really: to keep myself from forgetting that they are men, too – like you and I, only fighting for the other side.”

“A side that attacked our people without provocation,” Valory reminded him.

“Yet not without a reason,” Arden sighed. “If only we knew what it was.”

Valory hummed. “And what of the witches?”

Arden cast him a sidelong glance. “What of them?”

“You don’t feel their loss so keenly, do you?”

“I’m an academic, not a bleeding-heart; even I can’t summon any pity for those locker-tainted wretches.”

Valory snorted, rolling onto his side. “Just as well. If I encounter the Witch King again, mercy will be the last thing on my mind,” he said, laying a hand on Arden’s chest.

Arden’s head turned so they were looking at one another, a parody of the position they had been in the night before. “Is that threat made on my behalf?”

“It is.”

“Far be it from me to stay your hand, but I hope you know the injury is a small one – especially compared to what the Witch King had in mind.”

Valory edged closer, thumb stroking over Arden’s collarbone. “I have also been the recipient of the Witch King’s favors. Do not try to pass the experience off as less than what it was.”

Arden frowned. “He tried to drown you; there’s a difference of an order of magnitude, there.”

“Oh? Because if I remember correctly, you were nearly strangled today.”

Arden shut his eyes. “And yet there are many others who are worse for the wear than I. You sh—” His words were cut off by a gasp as Valory ran a finger over a painful-looking welt.

“That doesn’t lessen your pain,” Valory murmured. “I can feel it when I touch you. Shall we see what I can do about it?”

“I don’t want to exhaust you any further.”

“Let me put some salve and a dressing on it and I’ll cease pestering you.”

Arden regarded the Prince with no small amount of amusement. “You’re taking to your second enchantment like a Sarian child to gardening. Alright,” he relented, “do your worst.” Much to his surprise, the fingers that had been tracing his wounds came up to brush along his cheek. It was the only warning he had before Valory’s lips were on his, slow and deliberate. Stunned, he fisted his hands in the front of Valory’s shirt, pulling him forward until their chests were flush together.

“Mm,” Valory hummed in approval, nipping at his lower lip.

“Nngh, Val – not what I meant,” he laughed. “We’re still on deck.” He opened his eyes to meet Valory’s amused gaze.

“I’m aware.”

“My crew—”

“Are all below. I take your point, though; perhaps we should adjourn to your cabin?”

Most others would not have picked up on the uncertainty in the Prince’s voice. Arden liked to think, however, that he knew Valory better than that. “Let’s,” he said, sitting up.

Arden’s cabin was still in the same sorry state they had left it in. He lit the candles with a wave of his hand, sighing at the mess. Valory ducked his head beneath the bunk in search of the jar of salve they had dropped the night before while Arden tidied up his manuscripts, pushing them back onto the shelves in no particular order. He felt heat rise to his cheeks as he attempted to make the bunk look somewhat more presentable, tucking the sheets in at the corners.

“That’s a lost cause, I think,” Valory said. He had located the jar of salve and stood, hip bumping the corner of Arden’s desk. “And a futile one, I might add. We’re liable to muss it again tonight – if you’re amenable, that is.”

Arden swallowed, a slight shiver running through him at the suggestion. He turned away from the bunk to move back across the cabin. “I’m amenable.”

He kissed Valory this time, slotting their hips together shamelessly. Valory’s fingers knotted themselves in Arden’s hair as a soft groan vibrated in his throat. They kissed slowly, purposefully, and with a hunger that suggested Valory had devoted his fair share of thought to such matters that day.

“I’ve been thinking about this for hours,” Valory murmured against his lips. He kissed his way along Arden’s jaw, taking care to avoid any welts.

“Sometimes I think you pull thoughts out of my head.”

“Not my enchantment. Perhaps we’re simply like-minded in this,” Valory replied, sucking at the unblemished skin just beneath Arden’s ear. Arden arched his neck in invitation, ignoring the painful pull of the welts. “Careful,” Valory added, pressing a final closemouthed kiss to the sensitive spot. “Let me get a dressing on these before you do yourself any more damage.”

He walked Arden backwards until his calves bumped up against the lone chair in the cabin. Arden sat, leaning back and watching as Valory came to stand behind him. He felt fingers carding through his hair as Valory pulled it up off of his neck, tying it out of the way. “That’s nice,” he murmured before he was aware that the words were falling from his lips.

Valory kissed the nape of his neck. “You like it when I touch your hair.”

Arden’s eyes slitted open, a mischievous smile curling his lips. “Name an animal that doesn’t like to be petted.”

Valory smothered a laugh. “I hadn’t pegged you for a lover of double entendre.”

“That was a judgment error on your part.”

“Yes, well, before any kind of petting can commence, I need to get inside the collar of your shirt. If you would?”

Arden pulled his shirt up over his head, careful not to drag the linen across the sensitive skin of his neck. Valory let out a noise of disapproval when he saw the extent of his injuries; the welts continued all the way down the back of his neck, and the side of his rib cage was covered in bruises.

Valory slicked his hands with the salve. It felt cool to the touch, made with the extract of a tropical plant that was meant to soothe burns of all kinds. He ran his palms over Arden’s neck, spreading the salve over the worst of his injuries.

Arden shivered, dual sensations of pain and relief rolling through him. He could feel Valory working, drawing out the worst of the heat and swelling from the wounds. Valory’s enchantment felt similar to the way it had the night they had captured the _Madesta_ , but Arden could tell that he had been practicing. His hands brought a great deal of relief to Arden’s abused skin; Arden couldn’t help the goose bumps that broke out across his shoulders, nor the pleasant heat that grew deep in his belly.

He made a soft noise of protest when Valory withdrew his hands from his neck. With a chuckle, Valory placed a line of kisses across the upper ridge of one of his shoulder blades. “I need to dress it,” he murmured, unwinding the long, clean linen bandage he had taken from Little’s bag.

“I suppose I ought to keep it covered.”

“Little had Imran remove his for a few hours each day to let it dry, but the bandage can’t be foregone until they start to heal over,” Valory answered, winding the linen around Arden’s neck. His lips continued their progress over Arden’s shoulder blade, past the bumps of his spine, and across to the other side.

“You’ll let me know when to change the dressing?”

“I’ll change it myself,” Valory said, tying a neat knot in the cloth. He ghosted kisses over the bandage, delighting in the sigh of pleasure the action wrought from Arden’s lips. Wiping his hands off on his trousers, he untied Arden’s hair, carding his fingers through the knotted strands. Arden leaned shamelessly into the touch. After a moment he felt Valory’s fingers tapping a strange pattern out on his back and fought the urge to smile.

“Are you playing connect-the-shape back there?”

“I hadn’t realized you were hiding so many freckles.”

“I do have my mother’s complexion, I suppose. Gods know why I was the only one of my brothers to get it,” Arden sighed.

“I quite like it.”

Arden shrugged. “It’s a blessing and a curse. It makes me stand out in the south, but then, there have been times when being ‘that redhead northern sailor’ has gotten _Windjammer_ a dock slip or a commission we otherwise would have missed.”

“I’ve always been happy enough to blend in.”

Arden glanced over his shoulder at the Prince. He had common coloring for an Oceanic citizen, barring the piercing eyes he’d inherited from his father. “I can see the appeal in that. It grows wearisome, being called ‘red’ and ‘ginger-man’.”

“You spend more time down south, then?”

“Our commissions tend to keep us in the isles, if not on the midland coast. It was a bit of a surprise, at first, to realize that people remembered me that way, though not unwelcome. In Armathia it was no more than a point of comparison with my mother.” Arden fell silent for a few moments, thoughts turning over in his mind. “Do you remember her?” he finally asked.

Valory’s hands stilled. “I do.”

“I’ve only ever seen paintings, of course, and heard Verne’s stories.”

Valory heard the unspoken request. “She was kind. Bright. Witty. I remember that clearly. She was clever as well. She used to extract useful information for both of our fathers during social gatherings with the wives of visiting dignitaries. I wish I could tell you more. She was close with my mother, I remember.”

“Do you suppose, when we return to Armathia . . .” Arden trailed off.

“I’m sure my mother would be more than happy to tell you whatever it is you wish to know.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Valory hoped that Arden had ceased dwelling upon the events of the day. He shifted his weight. He admired Arden’s moral compass, but did not envy it; he figured it for a difficult thing to live with.

“You must be wrenching your back in that position,” Arden finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll take the sea chest, if you’d rather have the chair. Or here – I still have some of those mangoes.” He leaned forward to spring the lock of the chest, rifling through its contents in search of the jar.

“Sit, stay where you are. I’ll take the chest,” Valory insisted as Arden located the rum-soaked sweetened mangoes. He shut the lid with a bump of his calf and dragged the chest forward, sitting so his knees were sandwiched between Arden’s.

“Alright,” Arden agreed, fishing a mango out from the bottom of the jar. “Bit different than when we last did this, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, though I took far too much pleasure in your company even then.”

“Did you? Why didn’t you say something?”

“You know why. I still wonder whether or not I am imposing,” Valory admitted.

“This is no imposition,” Arden insisted, palm coming to rest on Valory’s thigh.

“Good, then,” Valory said, fingers curling around Arden’s wrist. He drew the hand that gripped the mango slice towards his mouth. “May I?”

“Of course,” Arden replied, voice rough. He watched intently as Valory’s lips closed over the fruit, brushing his fingertips in the process. Even after he had chewed and swallowed the mango Valory didn’t release Arden’s wrist; instead, he brought Arden’s fingers back up to his lips and slowly drew them into his mouth one-by-one. Arden’s lips parted with a quiet “ _Oh_ ,” as Valory sucked the syrup off of each in turn.

“Would you like one as well?” Valory asked, reaching for the jar. Arden stayed his hand.

“Just a taste, I think,” he said, surging forward to claim Valory’s mouth with his own. He savored the sharp sweetness left over on Valory’s lips and tongue, wresting a low noise of pleasure from Valory’s throat.

In turn Valory shifted forward off of the chest, palms sliding up the insides of Arden’s thighs. He came to kneel between them, neck craned upward to continue the kiss uninterrupted. Arden fisted a hand in his hair; the other began plucking at the laces of his vest.

 _Well, it seems this is happening again_ , Arden thought, dazed. _I can’t believe he’s been thinking about this for as long as I have. Gods, this is a terrible idea. I already enjoy his company far too much as it is –_

Arden’s tumbling thoughts were interrupted by the press of Valory’s palm against the front of his leggings. He squirmed in his chair, letting out a broken groan. Even as his grip on Valory’s hair tightened, Valory loosened his laces. Soon enough both leggings and small clothes had been pushed aside and Valory’s cheek was pressed against his bare thigh.

Arden nearly whimpered, hips rocking of their own volition. The _future Regent of Oceana_ was on his knees before him. Valory smiled predatorily, sliding forward. “Oh, Gods,” he gasped as Valory kissed the juncture between thigh and groin.

“I rather suspect I’ll have you praising them by name tonight.”

Arden’s strangled laugh dissolved into a groan. He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. “I’m not sure that’s what Illen meant when she told Eramen to always keep her name on his lips.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the thought, regardless. Unless . . .” he hesitated.

“Oh no, don’t you dare stop,” Arden growled, fisting his fingers in Valory’s hair. Opening his eyes, he realized that one of Valory’s hands had dropped to the placket of his own trousers, which he had already worked open. He knocked Valory’s hand away from the buttons with a foot. “I’ll not have you denying me the pleasure of returning the favor, either.”

The answering hum – against his most sensitive skin – did cause Arden to invoke the name of several Gods (and priests, and mythical beings, and kings of old).

 _Yes_ , Arden thought, shortly before his mind lost its ability for coherency, _this is a terrible idea._ A terrible idea, perhaps, but he had no intention of changing his mind now.


	13. Chapter 13

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 18; 2421_

The interior of the temple provided a respite from the blistering, humid heat. Arden sat cross legged in the shade, back propped against an intricately carved column. Sweat-dampened hair stuck to his temples and the back of his neck, though some strands had escaped to twine with the sea creatures carved into the stone behind him. Valory thought him a handsome sight, and chanced occasional glances over in his direction. Arden seemed unaware of the scrutiny. He started out over the cerulean blue harbor, lost in thought, fingers playing with the bit of marlinspike work he had brought to lay at the temple’s altars.

Valory paced slow circles around the vaulted open-air chamber, stopping every few steps to admire a gilt frieze or a particularly fine mural. The pressing enchantments of the Master Seer and his apprentices were making it impossible for him to sit still. Rather than give himself over to jittery motion – he liked to think he had more control over himself than that – he continued his slow, measured pacing.

He was sorry that his mind was too preoccupied to enjoy the beauty of the sacred space; the temple at Bightton was considered one of the most beautiful in Oceana, both for its architecture and the artwork it contained. Yet the combination of dissonant enchantments and the whirring of thoughts inside his head – numbers, figures, theories – left him unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments at a time. He prayed that Illen would forgive him for his distraction.

Footfalls – and a rather annoying tickle at the back of Valory’s mind – alerted them to the presence of one of the priests. A plump young man with a round, happy face emerged from a column-lined corridor. The man stopped just inside the chamber, tilting his head as he regarded them.

“My Lords,” he said with a graceful bow of his head, “if they had told me who was waiting in the antechamber, I would have fetched Master Lawrence directly. I see your query is an interesting one.”

“Pardon?” Valory asked. They had yet to speak of their names or their reason for visiting to anyone. The tickle grew more severe. Valory frowned.

“Master Lawrence is fascinated by the idea of amplification, my Lord,” the priest said. “He will be pleased to see you as well, Lord Arden, and even more pleased to know of your plans to return to Armathia.”

“Yet I doubt he will be pleased to know that you are still picking thoughts out of the heads of others without permission,” Arden said, turning away from the harbor to regard the young priest with a fond smile.

The priest ducked his head, obviously embarrassed at being caught out. “I still forget on occasion, my Lords. Apologies.”

“An Empath,” Valory said with a slow nod. It explained the tickle, at least. He was not unused to strong Empathetic enchantments. When visiting the courts of Armathia and Anaphe, he had to maintain barriers to protect his thoughts. As such, it was easy to throw up a wall that would keep out the probing young priest.

“Any word on when you’ll be sent to Ithaka?” Arden asked.

“Not yet, no.” Turning to Valory, the priest explained, “I am to be the Master Empath’s apprentice.”

“A high honor, to be sure.”

“Yes. And yes – I have developed an ability for mind-speak,” the priest said, answering the question at the forefront of Valory’s mind. “Master Lawrence says he will be with you in a moment, by the way.”

“I have an Empath amongst my men who might like to speak with you,” Valory said. Inwardly he frowned. It was rare for him to fail to put up a proper mental barrier. He renewed his concentration, but the priest seemed to have no trouble seeing straight past it.

“Gabriel. He is powerful. He seeks more control over his enchantment?”

“Indeed.”

“Forgive me, my Lord – I can see that you find such observations unnerving,” the priest sighed.

“I find it unnerving that my usual methods for protecting my thoughts are not working.”

“I am very strong, my Lord. The Master Empath is the only one who can hide his thoughts from me,” the priest said.

“Uncanny,” Valory muttered.

“I would have thought you would be accustomed to having your mind picked by Gabe,” Arden said.

“Gabe’s talent is not quite so thorough. I willingly grant him access to my thoughts when we are on assignment,” he said. He spared a thought for the knowing glances Gabriel had been sending his way of late. At that he looked back over at the priest, whose face lit up with a pleased smile. “You’re looking right now, aren’t you?” he asked, fighting the wave of embarrassment that threatened to rise within him. The man would have observed the thoughts of Arden – Arden’s lips, Arden’s bed, _Arden_ – the moment they flitted through his mind. Valory frowned.

“Yes my Lord, sorry my Lord, trying not to look,” the priest said, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks as he darted a furtive glance towards Arden.

Valory was spared the discomfort of continuing their conversation by the approach of another. He felt the presence of a powerful enchantment before he heard the voice associated with it. “Rubin, what did I tell you about using your enchantment on guests?”

Master Lawrence emerged from the courtyard archway, long robes fluttering behind him. A pair of white bushy brows offset the dark complexion of his wrinkled face, giving him the appearance of a gentle grandfather. The pair of shrewd eyes framed by those brows, however, prevented him from seeming too benign. He bowed his head towards Valory before rounding on Rubin again.

“I’m trying, sir, I’m sorry,” the priest said before Lawrence could even open his mouth.

“I know, I know. Now if you—”

“Of course sir, I’ll have it for you in a moment,” Rubin said, not even realizing he had plucked the thought from Lawrence’s mind. He bowed before bustling down the corridor, robes flapping in his wake.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Lawrence said, frowning for a moment before his countenance cleared. “It is a pleasure to see you both, my Lords – and I believe we Kilcoranians owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Might we then assume that we can ply you for information in the name of said gratitude?” Arden asked, standing and clasping arms with the wizened priest.

“Always, my boy. How have you been? Enjoying those scrolls you took last time you passed through?”

“I’ve been well, thank you. The scrolls are fascinating. We’ve forgotten much since the Age of the Gods,” he nodded. “Regrettably we don’t have much time to discuss such matters; _Windjammer_ is being outfitted for passage to Armathia as we speak.”

“Of course. Come – let us adjourn to the courtyard. Rubin is on his way with the coffee, and I can hear more about this vision of yours.”

The courtyard in the center of the temple was lush with overgrown arrangements of bright, fragrant flowers. As they meandered along the pathway, exotic birds with colorful plumage whistled from perches far above their heads. There were clearings here and there along the pathway; shady spots beneath trees where one might take respite from the midday heat. One such clearing was a small alcove patio where a table and chairs stood, surrounded by leafy plants.

It was here that the three of them settled. Rubin was already pouring out the coffee, making it to their individual specifications without even having to inquire after who would take milk and who would take sugar. He ducked away with a shy smile once his task was finished, bowing again before leaving the men to take their seats.

“Your garden is lovely as ever,” Arden remarked, sipping at his coffee with a contented sigh.

“Kind of you to say so. You would be amazed to know how much work it takes to make something look so wild,” Lawrence said. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my garden; tell me about these visions.”

“Only one vision – the first I’ve ever had.”

“Because of that, you suspect that it has something to do with amplification? You don’t think you might be getting stronger with time?”

“I don’t think so. All signs point to amplification, particularly the circumstances surrounding the vision,” Arden said, describing the vision at the temple in Lyre in detail.

Lawrence was silent for a few moments, bushy brow furrowed. “You don’t suppose it’s has anything to do with the mind-speak of the witches themselves, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Arden frowned. “Even if it did, I’m certain that Valory amplified my Elemental talent as well.” He recounted what he remembered of the demise of the Commodore’s Lieutenant.

“Witches would have had no bearing on that,” Lawrence said. “How strange.”

“Why the interest in the abilities of witches?” Valory asked.

“Their increased presence was worrisome even before the events at Illen’s Arm. Rubin and I have both been very aware of their activity. I had long thought that their powers were waning, but that might not be the case.”

“You think the Sea-Witch King gave me a vision?” Arden asked.

“Not quite – but he was there, was he not? You felt his presence, felt that cold, dark pull at the edges of your mind. I’ve felt that as well these past few weeks. Rubin hears the clicks and hisses occasionally – that foul language of theirs.”

“What does that mean, then? The witches have tried to get inside our minds?” Arden asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Why?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Lawrence mused, taking a sip of his coffee.

“We suspect that the witches are using their abilities to gain some sort of control over the thoughts of the Westernese officers. It has made interrogation nigh on impossible,” Valory said.

“Now that’s interesting,” Lawrence rumbled. “If they are using Ranael’s Gift upon their allies, I wonder what they would attempt with their enemies.”

“Do you think the Sea-Witch King attempted to make contact with me on Lyre?” Arden asked.

“It could be. It is said that they are best able to do so when a man is dreaming, though perhaps a vision would suffice.”

“But to what end?” Arden asked. “If they had intended to manipulate our thoughts as they do with the Westernese, wouldn’t they have done so already?”

“Perhaps they cannot,” Valory said.

“What makes you say so?” Lawrence asked.

“You said it yourself: mind-speak is most easily done when a man is caught up in dreams or visions, because the conscious mind is not able to fight the intrusion. Either we are dealing with an extraordinarily powerful witch, or the Westernese have chosen to allow the intrusion. Perhaps they have permitted the witches to take control for the sake of solidifying their alliance.”

“Do you think he was enticing me to do as the Westernese did, and relinquish control to him? Was he using the vision as bait so that he might see into my mind?” Arden asked, a faint tremor to his words.

“I think that’s a part of the puzzle my boy, although I don’t doubt that there’s more to it than that,” Lawrence nodded. “I have stopped seeking visions these past few months myself. I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease each time I stepped into one.”

“Unnerving, that. I suppose I’m a bit disappointed as well. It was so interesting at first, and I was so chuffed to have finally had my first true vision.”

“Do not mistake me, my boy – I did not mean to imply that the Witch King gave you a vision. The vision was your own, produced by you. He took advantage of an opportunity that your enchantment created.”

“Why would he be interested in the brief and rather ordinary vision of a minor Seer?” Arden asked.

“You were touching a wound that he delivered,” Valory said, sweeping his hair back with a hand. The scar glinted in the sunlight. “There might be some of him in it still.”

“It would have been like a siren song for the foul creature,” Lawrence murmured, regarding the strange mark with curiosity.

“Perhaps the creature amplified my enchantment.”

“Or Valory did. Made by the Witch King or no, it was still our own Prince Valory you were touching,” Lawrence said. “I’d say that the experience you had whilst capturing the _Madesta_ shows that the Prince is the common factor. I’m afraid I can’t say all that much more on the matter of your Elemental talent, however. Not my area.”

“The mechanism must be similar,” Arden replied.

“It might be, though I’m not sure I would encourage the assumption. Who knows, with enchantments? Either way, Prince Valory, I believe I owe you an apology – and one to your Healer, as well. The idea of amplification has always fascinated me, but I’m afraid I was dismissive of his stories before now.”

“I’m hardly in the position to make noise at you for missing clues, considering my recent discovery about my own talent,” Valory shrugged.

Lawrence smiled. “Rubin mentioned that you knew. I confess I have known for a while, but didn’t quite think it my place to say anything about it. What is it, if I may ask?”

“A Healing talent. Minor, but adequate.”

“How fitting,” Lawrence nodded. “And you have been working on refining it. I can tell.”

“We were wondering whether or not his second enchantment was the cause of the amplification,” Arden said.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Arden shrugged. “We haven’t had much opportunity to study it, nor do we have any control over it.”

Lawrence sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you seek. I do not know the exact mechanism by which amplification would occur, and though there is some evidence that others have had this experience in the past, there aren’t any technical texts written on the matter. None that I know of, at least. With more time and observation I might have a better handle on it, but I doubt you would want to remain in Bightton for the sake of study.”

“Regrettably, no,” Arden murmured.

“What I can say with certainty, my boy, is that Illen approves of you. She has plans for you – for both of you.”

“Is that . . .” Arden trailed off.

“Not a part of one of my visions, no; it is something that I simply _know_. That is how you See, is it not?”

“Yes, that is more akin to how my talent manifests,” Arden replied.

“Then do not doubt it. Illen saw greatness in each of you. Prince Valory – she brought you back from the clutches of the Sea-Witch King and Blessed you as she Blessed Eramen after the Banishment. Arden, my boy – she has watched you since your birth. You were gifted two enchantments, and now Illen has allowed you to act as a vector for tremendous power. None of this is an accident.”

“I suppose it might be wise to spend some time at her altar today,” Arden murmured, nodding.

“Far be it from me to question Illen’s will, Master Lawrence, but why us? I have always wondered why she chose to save me when so many other men died that night,” Valory said.

“You must have work left to do. I may not be as willing to delve into visions in these dark times, but that doesn’t prevent me from Seeing that both of you are inextricably bound up in Oceana’s fate.”

“Do you See anything of our future? Of the fight against the spreading shadow?” Arden asked.

“You know I cannot – will not – say too much about futures,” Lawrence said. “All I may tell you is this: do not despair. You will face many trials when you reach Armathia, but a kernel of good will come of it. Trust in it. Let yourselves have that bit of good, selfish thought it may seem, and for Illen’s sake do not fight it.”

“Seers: cryptic as always,” Valory sighed.

“I would have thought that you would be used to our ways,” Lawrence smiled.

“You’re worse than my mother, really.”

“I’m not the Master of my craft for nothing. Now my Lord, would you like me to see about blessing that talisman of yours?”

“Is that a roundabout way of complaining about my signature?”

“Merely an observation, my Lord.”

“I think I’ll take my leave, then, if you’re going to have your talisman taken care of. I’ve got a number of errands to run before we sup at the Fluke and Fiddle, and I’d like to visit the altars before that,” Arden said, standing.

“I’ll meet you at the tavern, then?” Valory asked, clasping Arden’s arm.

“Of course. Master Lawrence, it’s always a pleasure to see you. I regret my visit must be so short.”

“Say no more, my boy. If you would like to peruse my library before leaving, Rubin knows that you are to be granted access. Take whatever you like.”

“Thank you – I think I might take you up on that offer.”

“Safe travels, then. May the wind be at your back.” They clasped arms. Just as Arden was turning to leave, however, Lawrence spoke again. “And Arden . . . when you return to Armathia, you will see _him_ again. Try to find it in yourself to pity him – better still, to forgive him.”

Arden made a low noise in his throat, a pained expression upon his face. “You don’t need to fear my reaction; my anger is not what it used to be.”

“Perhaps not, perhaps not,” Lawrence sighed. “But he will be there when you return, and in his astonishment, his reception of you might be less than inviting. Try to see him for the troubled man that he is. He will come around.”

“Forgive me for being unable to imagine such a thing.”

“He will be proud to call you ‘son’. I am sure of it. He needs only admit it to himself,” Lawrence insisted.

“How unfortunate, then, that I am not so proud to call him ‘father’ in return,” Arden said, face blank. “I think I will head to the altars now. May the wind be at yours, Master Lawrence.”

Heedless of Lawrence’s words of protest, Arden spun on his heel and disappeared back into the garden. The Master Seer sighed, slowly sinking back into his seat.

“He is still hurt. He will come around,” Valory offered, voice neutral.

“Lord Miran has said some damnable things, but for all of his nastiness, he loves his boy.”

“I know it.”

“My Lord, it may not be my place to beg a favor of you, but please look after him. He is dear as a son to me.”

“Of course. I would have done so even if you did not beg the favor.”

Lawrence regarded him carefully. “Yes, I reckon you would have, at that. Now let’s have your talisman, if you please – Gods willing we can do something about this awful signature of yours.”

…

The first thing Valory noticed upon approaching the threshold of the Fluke and Fiddle was not the noise of merriment, nor the smell of Bertha’s famous pies. Instead, he leaned up against the door jamb and enjoyed the curling warmth of Arden’s enchantment as it wrapped around his own and settled between his ribs. Master Lawrence’s blessing had helped; the impact of the clashing enchantments of others was ever so slightly deadened. He was pleased to note, however, that it hadn’t lessened the impact of Arden’s signature at all.

Arden, who appeared to have made a similar observation, was weaving through the crowd towards the door, two mugs of home brew in his fists and a brilliant smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I felt you come in the door,” he called out over the din, “did Lawrence even do anything?”

“He blessed my talisman and laid it upon Illen’s altar,” Valory shrugged, accepting the proffered mug with a brief smile of thanks.

“I can’t tell the difference, can you?”

“Not much,” Valory admitted.

“I suppose you _did_ tell me that telekinetics are the abrasive sort . . . ouch!” he swore as Valory elbowed him in the ribs. “I’ll get you for that later.”

Valory’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh, I hope so.”

“Mmm,” Arden smiled. “So, what took you so long? Lawrence must have chatted your ear off.”

“Not quite. I stayed behind at the altars for a while after he took leave of me. I found I had . . . much to say about the past few weeks,” Valory said, a frown creeping across his face.

“I did as well; I went to the altars while you were still with Lawrence. I know the Westernese have never bowed their heads for Illen, but I asked her to be kind to them,” Arden replied, gaze sliding away from Valory’s. “Especially to those seventeen . . .” he trailed off. “You know what I mean to say.”

“I do. I begged her forgiveness for the Commodore,” Valory confessed. “For what I have done, and for what I will have to do in the future to get the information that I need to keep my people safe. Though I think it will be his forgiveness I must beg on the matter.”

Arden heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Heavy talk for the Fluke and Fiddle, even for us.”

“Apologies.”

“No, no. I only . . . I think I would like an evening during which I can put such thoughts aside,” Arden said. “I imagine you need a bit of revelry just as much as I do.”

“Let’s, then,” Valory agreed, taking a large swallow of home brew.

Arden had just opened his mouth to reply when his name was shouted from halfway across the room.

“Jack! There you are – I saw Callum and Miss Ehrin and knew you wouldn’t be far,” a stout, matronly woman said, bustling towards him.

“Bertha, you’re looking lovely tonight,” Arden said, indicating the flower tucked behind her ear as he bent to place a kiss upon one plump cheek.

“Oh, you,” she smiled, swatting him on the arm, “always a charmer. Trying to make me forget about all of the trouble you caused the last time you were here, are you?”

“Now why would I need a reason to pay you a compliment?”

“Oh stop it,” Bertha batted her lashes. “Now Jack, you’ll not be asking any questions about _that_ book in my establishment, understand? Especially not after what happened at Illen’s Arm.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Arden assured her.

“Just as well, or I’d be tossing you out on your ear as I did the last time,” she threatened, wagging a finger at him. “Now young man, mind your manners and introduce me to your friend – oh! My Lord Valory, I beg your pardon, I hardly recognized you, what with your hair down and your shirtsleeves rolled up and all,” she stammered, skin darkening from her cheeks down to her ample bosom.

“No apologies necessary, Bertha. As always, my compliments to your home brew.”

“Oh thank you, my Lord. Let me get you a spot of something to eat – on the house, of course. I’ve a fresh batch of creamy pork pies coming out of the oven, if that suits your fancy. The butcher has been giving me his choicest cuts.”

“Has he now? And would this butcher be the handsome widower I met during my last stay?” Arden asked, waggling his eyebrows. “Might that have anything to do with that flower behind your ear?”

“Jack,” she admonished, blushing further.

“Leave the poor woman alone, _Jack_ ,” Valory said.

“You should be taking advice from our honorable Prince, young man. How is it that you know one another?” Bertha asked, jumping at the opportunity to change the subject.

Noticing Arden’s subtle shake of head, Valory answered, “My men and I have been sailing aboard _Windjammer_ for two months.”

“You must know Miss Ehrin, then. Lovely girl,” Bertha said, leveling a significant glance at Arden.

At Valory’s cocked brow, Arden explained, “Bertha seems to have taken it upon herself to find me a wife. Apparently she is Bightton’s most sought-after matchmaker.”

“Is that so?” Valory asked, eyes dancing with amusement.

Bertha puffed her chest out proudly. “I’ve seen all five of me girls happily matched, my Lord. Now Jack, my own niece has come to stay at the tavern to learn the trade. She’s a pretty little thing, but sharp enough to put up with the likes of you—”

“Sounds like the sort that Jonah would be more than happy to shower with favors.”

“You keep that scoundrel away from her – she’s an honest girl, looking for a husband. You would catch her eye, you know. What’s more, she’s a minor Empath with good blood. She’d bear you a brood of sons – mark my words.”

Arden blanched. Valory let out a snort of laughter. “I’m sure Jack appreciates the offer, but I’m afraid I’ve already commissioned _Windjammer_ for a trip to Armathia. He could be there for some time.”

Bertha sighed. “Well Jack, when you’re ready to settle down and start a family with a nice Kilcoranian girl, you let me know. I’ve got nieces in spades – all marriageable, decent girls, mind you – from here all the way to the other coast.”

“When I am, you’ll be the first to know,” Arden promised solemnly as a table full of Kythrian navy men began to clamor for more rum.

“I’ll be holding you to that,” she declared before bustling away to fill more orders.

“Well,” Valory smirked once she had left.

“Don’t even.”

“She’s worse than Siath.”

“Siath?”

“Siath can be a regular old woman when the mood strikes him.”

“But you and the Lady Sybina . . .” Arden trailed off.

“My brother knows me a sight better than that,” Valory murmured, hand closing over Arden’s elbow and steering him towards a table at the edge of the room.

“So he . . .”

“Is an insufferable meddler, though I’ll be the first to admit that I appreciate the thoughtful – if misguided – attempts to do right by his little brother,” Valory finished, settling into a seat with his back to the wall.

“I think Verne suspected, but he never said anything,” Arden mused, pulling a chair up next to the Prince. The moment he was seated, Valory’s palm came to rest on his thigh. Arden started.

“None can see,” Valory assured him, voice low. His thumb began to play at the inseam of Arden’s leggings.

“Planning on palming me under the table, are you?” Arden asked, heat rising in his face.

“Not quite, though I find that I enjoy cultivating a bit of anticipation for the night’s end.”

“If I’d known you were such a prick tease—”

Valory let out a snort. “You’re assuming I won’t make good on my promises.”

“Will you?” Arden hid his grin behind the rim of his mug. “Then by all means, continue.”

Valory let out a contented hum, leaning back in his chair as his thumb returned to brushing small circles on Arden’s thigh. On the other side of the tavern, Jonah lifted his fiddle and launched into a foot-stomping reel. His fellow patrons made no attempt to hide their delight.

Some of the Kythrian sailors – easily identified by the cut of their uniforms – got to their feet to try out the steps of a traditional Kilcoranian dance. Arden laughed aloud as Landon good-naturedly permitted his men to pull him to his feet. He showed some competence with the dance, much to the delight of his underlings and the numerous Kilcoranian navy men. Gavin, unfettered by Edgar’s absence, soon stood to join him. He waved Arden over, trying to entice him to join in the step. Arden shook his head with a mute smile.

“He seems rather keen,” Valory said, leaning towards Arden to be heard over the din.

“He is,” Arden sighed, taking a long swig of his brew.

“He propositioned you in the fort on Kythria, did he not?”

“He did.”

“He knew you from before?”

“From the last time _Windjammer_ passed through. Is something the matter?” Arden asked. Was Valory jealous?

“No,” Valory said, hand climbing higher on Arden’s thigh.

Arden sucked in a breath, enjoying the pleasant warmth that spread through him at Valory’s touch. “Good,” he murmured, pressing Valory’s knee in response.

Ehrin appeared in the crowd before them, navigating her way through the celebrating navy men while balancing two laden plates on one arm and a frothy mug of home brew in the other. She reached their table and slid the plates across to them before dropping into the chair opposite, cradling her mug with a satisfied smile.

“Picking up a few extra coin working for Bertha?” Arden teased.

“And here I had thought you would thank me for intercepting your meal before she came around with more talk of marriage,” Ehrin rolled her eyes.

“She already started.”

“Who is it this time, one of her nieces?”

“Of course. Don’t play the martyr, though; I know you too well. Who are you trying to escape?” Arden asked.

“With Niko injured and Little on the _Windjammer_ , the boys aren’t too keen on their usual hands of cards. Jonah’s on the fiddle, of course, but Lars is in his cups. He’s attempting to teach Imran how to woo Oceanic women.”

Valory snorted. “The Sarian is. Of course.”

“As I said, he’s in his cups. It was an entertaining sight until Lars decided that Imran needed practice before approaching the genuine article. You can, at that point, figure out why they deemed my presence necessary.”

“Imran has been trying to charm you, for practice,” Arden said, fighting the laughter that threatened to escape from his throat.

“He really is terrible at it. He started off by calling me a ‘comely lass’; you can imagine how that sounded in a Dramorian accent. He tried to salvage it with ‘handsome woman’. I nearly slapped him on principle.”

Arden laughed around a mouthful of pork pie. “Where are they now?”

“Being slapped in earnest, I imagine. They set their sights on a buxom barmaid over in the corner. Gods only know what Imran will say about _her_.”

Arden glanced over at Valory, who was eating left-handed in order to keep his right palm firmly pressed against Arden’s thigh. “Has he ever . . . ?” he trailed off.

“Imran does alright with foreigners; they’re more understanding of his misuse of Oceanic adjectives. When he gets desperate for a lay, he pretends to be a mute.”

Ehrin nearly spat her beer across the table. “A _mute_?” she asked, incredulous.

“You’ve heard him; he’s hopeless. It’s not only his use of Oceanic – he’s a bit of a bastard in Dramorian as well. Barmaids dote on him when he plays at being unable to speak.”

“ _Ranael_ , I would pay to see that,” Ehrin grinned.

“Looks like you might not have to,” Valory said, nodding at an approaching figure.

A sour-faced Imran was stomping in their direction, Lars weaving at his heels. Imran had done his hair in a simple queue that evening, not wanting to seem too much of a foreigner after the battle at Illen’s Arm. He gave Valory a long look before dropping down into the chair at the end of the table and folding his arms across his chest.

“Where’s Gabe?” Arden asked as Lars sat down on the table itself, home brew sloshing over the sides of his mug.

Imran grunted disdainfully as Lars cackled, pointing upwards. “Quiet little Gabe came through early on. We’ll not be seeing him until the end of the night, I reckon.”

“Is that so?” Valory asked, raising a brow. His thumb continued to trace little circles along Arden’s inseam.

“Good for him,” Arden said, putting down his fork and attempting to keep the hitch from his voice. In the background, Jonah began the refrain of a popular shanty. Most of the tavern was soon roaring along, Lars included; as soon as he recognized the tune, he tottered off to join the Kythrian sailors in their revelry.

“He’s in a bit of a state, isn’t he?” Ehrin smirked. “Though I suppose it’s no business of mine so long as he doesn’t boot on deck.”

“He’s not used to celebrating without Niko. He’s still worried, I think,” Arden pointed out.

“There’s no infection, which is a good sign at this point. It has been the better part of a week, after all,” Valory noted.

“I think we’ll all feel better when he’s back on his feet.”

“Yes,” Imran agreed. “There were no cards tonight. The men did not think it right, without Niko. It is his game that they play.”

“Niko must be right sick of Ante with all of the bed rest he’s been getting,” Ehrin said.

“He’s been pressed into his fair share of sail-mending, don’t you worry,” Arden assured her. “Besides, I can’t imagine the man getting sick of Ante. He touches his brow at the very mention of such a thing.”

“He and Little are playing it now, to pass the time. I might return to _Windjammer_ and join them,” Imran said.

“Giving in for the night, then?” Valory teased.

Imran frowned at the amused expression on the Prince’s face. “Unless you would like to give me your own advice on charming a _woman_ , sir,” he said, pointedly.

“ _Fair enough, I asked for that. A little discretion would be appreciated, however_ ,” Valory answered in passable Dramorian.

Imran rolled his eyes. “ _Just because the others are too tactful-kind-shy to say anything doesn’t mean they haven’t noticed. Your bunk has been intentional-absent for several days. I have spent those days thanking Arrar for not having Gabriel’s curse-pain-horror of an enchantment._ ”

“Gods, I’d forgotten about that,” Arden murmured, wincing.

Ehrin looked back and forth between them, pursing her lips. “You three finished?” she asked.

“Apologies,” Imran said stiffly. “I will return to _Windjammer_ now. If Lars is not yet drunk enough to overlook my absence, tell him I have gone. Goodnight.”

Ehrin waited until Imran made a move for the door before rounding on Arden. “Was that Dramorian? Since when do you speak Dramorian?”

“I learned it at a young age. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, all things considered. To be honest I’m more comfortable with the written language versus the spoken language, but I haven’t had much opportunity for practice these past years.”

“But Dramorian?” she asked.

“I was trained to be a diplomat – you know that.”

“You never let on that you had an ear for languages before,” Ehrin pointed out.

“I had to do _something_ to blend in. Besides, the lie has worked to our advantage over the years, I’ll have you know.”

On the other side of the tavern, Imran had reached the door. Valory nudged Arden beneath the table; Imran was speaking to a liveried messenger and indicating their corner table with a pointed finger. “Looks as though our night of leisure is about to come to an abrupt end,” he remarked, reluctantly pulling his hand away from Arden’s thigh.

The messenger strode through the room, avoiding the drunken revelry with single-minded focus. He bowed when he reached their table, drawing curious looks from the other patrons. “A letter for you, my Lords, from Master Lawrence. He said it was urgent.” The messenger slid a wax-sealed envelope across the table.

Valory broke Lawrence’s seal with a thumb nail before laying the letter out on the table so Arden could peruse its contents as well. He felt Arden stiffen by his side; the grip on his knee went painfully tight. Valory looked up at the messenger. “Is he expecting a reply?”

“No, my Lords, but he made me promise to stay until you read the whole thing. He said it was imperative that you hear his news as soon as possible.”

“Your service is appreciated,” Valory said, sliding a coin across the table towards the messenger.

The boy took it, eyes wide at the Prince’s generosity. “Thank you, my Lord. If you do not require anything further, I will return to Master Lawrence to inform him that the task is done.”

“May the wind be at your back,” Valory said in dismissal.

“And at yours, my Lords,” the messenger said before bowing again, turning, and hurrying back out of the tavern.

“Is everything alright?” Ehrin asked.

“Ithaka was attacked four days past,” Arden said, voice low.

Valory slammed his fist on the table, causing their mugs and plates to jump. “Gods _damn_ it,” he swore, “we knew it was coming and still we couldn’t stop it.”

“Our dispatch to Elona won’t arrive for another day or two,” Arden said, lowering his face into his hands.

“Did the Commodore know?” Ehrin asked, biting at her lower lip.

“No. No, he wouldn’t have – not unless the Western city-states have completely changed in character in the past few months. Elona was sacked by Januzians. They’d sooner tell us their secrets than cooperate with the Belenese,” Valory explained, standing up and dropping a handful of coins on the table. “Ehrin, tell no one of this, save your father. I’ll brief the rest of the crew tomorrow. Arden, come.”

Arden stood, following Valory as he strode through the crowded tavern and out onto the street. They kept a brisk pace, walking in silence until they were well away from the crowd that had surrounded the Fluke and Fiddle. Once they turned off towards the docks, Valory stopped abruptly. He was still for a moment, examining the contents of the letter once more by lantern light before he began to pace along the side of the road.

“Let’s examine what we know. The Master Empath contacted Rubin in a panic. He must have remembered that he had a candidate for apprenticeship here on Kilcoran, and would have realized that mind-speak was the only way to contact him. His message was cut off half way and interrupted by the tongue of the Witch King,” he began.

“He must have known he would be. Look at the way his contact is phrased: _‘Elona taken, Januz, sixteenth.’_ I doubt a man with his level of skill would be limited to short phrases. He was trying to convey the most amount of information in the little time he had,” Arden said.

“The witches are the common theme in all of this. They are recruiting the Westernese to do their bidding.”

“To do their bidding _on land_ ,” Arden amended. “I’ve been puzzling over why the witches retreated so quickly when the Bightton fleet arrived.”

“They sought to gain control over the ports; the hunt was inconsequential. They couldn’t launch a harbor attack without the aid of the Westernese.”

“Why the ports?”

“Specifically, why Ithaka and Kilcoran? Why not Kythria and Lyre?”

“Perhaps Kythria and Lyre are next,” Arden said.

“How? It’s inconceivable that Belen and Januz have enough naval resources left. Don’t you remember the crew of the _Madesta_? Lars and Jonah remarked over how green the hands seemed. They must have done a massive press in order to crew this raid. Eleven vessels from Belen alone – the state is not _that_ large.”

“Then Kythria and Lyre are being overlooked in favor of the larger isles,” Arden reasoned, tapping his fingers against his lips in thought. Even by lantern light, Valory could see the moment the blood drained from his face. “This isn’t about our borders. They’re trying to isolate Armathia.”

“Of course. _Gods_ , of course they are,” Valory’s pacing halted. “They’re cutting Armathia off from its major sources of military support.”

“You realize what that means, don’t you? Unless Saria has allied with the Sea-Witch King – unlikely – the next attack is going to come over our desert border.”

“Anaphe.”

“Conrad,” Arden murmured, reflexively glancing southward.

“Yes. But we have thrown their plans by intercepting the attack meant for Kilcoran. Unless an attack in Anaphe is already underway, we may have bought Conrad a great deal of time.”

“True,” Arden allowed, agreed. Valory could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. “We will buy him even more if we can retake Ithaka.”

“We cannot do so with the Kilcoranian and Kythrian fleets.”

“No, they’re in no state for it. We would not want to leave Kilcoran unguarded, anyway,” Arden frowned, rubbing at his temples. “The Januzian fleet must know by now that the Belenese have failed. They might not be allied with one another, but they are working in tandem. They will come for Kilcoran if given enough time.”

“Then we mustn’t give them the time. We were meant to sail for Armathia in two days, and sail to Armathia we will. The Armathian fleet will crush Januz and they know it; it’s why they’ve never attacked our capital.”

“There are the witches to consider,” Arden pointed out. “They will fight hard for Ithaka.”

“Then we must fight harder.”

“Can we afford to pull Armathia’s fleet out of the Gulf?”

Valory sighed. “Do we have any other options?”

“How long will they take to make ready?”

“Too long. Two weeks, perhaps more. Mobilizing the Armathian fleet takes a colossal feat of political maneuvering; not to mention the provisioning, conscripting . . . aside from the active patrol vessels, the Armathian navy has not seen conflict since Durand retook Anaphe.”

“ _Fángon_ ,” Arden swore, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Gods only know what the Januzians will get up to in Ithaka by the time we reach them.”

“It has been four days. We already know that the Westernese are not in the habit of giving quarter.”

They looked at one another in the lantern light for a long moment, each thinking similar thoughts. “When we strapped the Commodore to the board the night of the battle with the _Madesta_ , do you remember what he was saying towards the end?”

“When he began to babble?”

“It was Januzian.”

“Before he gave up the date of the attack on Illen’s Arm, yes, he was rambling in Januzian.”

“Am I right to suppose that he was once captured and tortured by the Januzians, then?” Arden asked.

“That was my impression.”

“Our officers . . .” Arden trailed off, feeling sick.

“Are most likely having a very similar experience as we speak,” Valory said, lips thinning.

“In another world it could have been you and I.”

“Best not to think that way.” A platitude, Valory knew, for Arden was already imagining the scenario in vivid detail.

“I don’t think I could take the board,” Arden confessed. “It’s bad enough when I push myself while spearfishing, but the water like that—”

“No one can take the board. Come here,” Valory said. Arden turned, a question on his lips, only to find himself chest-to-chest with Valory. Valory’s palms came up to cup his jaw, pulling him into a fierce kiss. After a moment’s surprise, Arden decided that if it was comfort or distraction Valory was seeking, he would give as good as he got.

When they broke apart, Valory rested their foreheads together for another moment before pulling away, dropping his hands to his sides. “I find that I have a strong aversion to the image of you on the board.”

“Glad we agree on that, then,” Arden replied, aiming for humor and failing.

With that Valory was pacing again, mind clearly back on the situation in Ithaka. After a few circles around the edge of the lantern light, he stopped and turned to Arden once more. “Do you have anything from Januz in the ship’s library?”

Arden frowned, thinking. “I might. What sort of thing were you looking for?”

“Anything. History, military practices . . . I’m familiar with the state, of course, but deeper study wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Perhaps we might take a look before retiring tonight. I presume you have no stomach for revelry at the moment; my appetite for home brew is completely gone,” Arden said.

“Likewise. Shall we, then?”

They turned back in the direction of the docks together, falling into step automatically. Before they had even rounded the corner, Arden was reciting sections of a treatise on the Januzian dialect that might prove helpful. It wasn’t until they were back at their slip that Arden realized he had assumed that the Prince would retire to his cabin again at the end of the night.

As Valory gestured animatedly, relating the differences between Januzian and Belenese diphthongs, Arden wondered which was stranger: that he had assumed the Prince would share his company that night, or that he was right.

…

“It’s from the Queen and High Steward Miran,” Fiona said, hands shaking as she lowered the letter to the table.

“What news?” Jarmon asked, pouring a splash of cream into both of their mugs of coffee.

“She . . . the Queen, she . . . she _thanked_ me.” Fiona was stunned.

“If rumor is to be believed, our Queen is far more than a mother of heirs, my Lady. She must know that you have exposed yourself to great danger out of loyalty to her House.”

“She does. She said so. She wrote in her own hand, Lord Jarmon. My grandfather’s script begins halfway down the page.”

“What did she write, if I may ask?”

“She told me to listen to your counsel. She said to trust my own judgment above all. Then, at the end of her missive she wrote: ‘ _From one woman to another, be strong. A good leader is one who is firm even when they are merciful. In times of doubt, remember the House you were born to. You are a part of the line of Stewards. The Regent will come as soon as he is able, but until then, I know that Anaphe is in good hands.’_ How can she have such faith in me?”

“The Queen Sees much, my Lady. I doubt her faith is misplaced. Did Steward Miran write anything about the reinforcements requested by Captain Malcolm?”

“He did, and little else besides.”

“Your father once told me that Lord Miran is not the type to give gentle words of encouragement. I’m sure no slight was meant by it.”

“That makes me feel a bit better,” Fiona admitted.

“Aught from Lord Verne?”

“He asked for more information about my father’s death and inquired after my sisters. He informed me that he would leave the matter of my marriage to Prince Valory.”

“You may be assured of a good match, then. The Prince is a fair man.”

She made a noncommittal noise, folding the letters carefully and tucking them into her robes. “Lord Jarmon, would you think it appropriate if I responded with two sets of missives, one personal and one not? I do not know my uncle or grandfather very well, but would like to write to them.”

“They are busy men, my Lady. Lord Miran might not respond. Perhaps Lord Verne would consider doing so.”

“Of course,” she said, looking down at her hands.

Jarmon heaved a sigh, patting her gently on the arm. “You’ve suffered two mighty losses in your family in as many years, my Lady. They will not ridicule you for reaching out to them. I only wish to caution you against hoping for flowery prose from two men who are known for their gravitas.”

“You are right, of course. I should be content with the good news these dispatches have brought; help is on its way, and the Armathian messenger passed through the Borderlands unmolested.”

“Yes, he said that he saw no creature the likes of which could have produced such a fang as was found last time,” Jarmon nodded.

“Your naturalists are still stumped?”

“Whatever the creature was, its likeness has never been recorded by an Anaphean naturalist; else record of it has perished.”

“Do they think it a new species?”

“Let us hope not,” Jarmon frowned.

The door to Fiona’s study opened. “Captain Malcolm is here to see you, my Lady,” a guardsman announced.

“Let him in,” she replied, feeling her heart skip and her face warm as the handsome Captain bowed before her. He met her eyes as he straightened; they smiled at one another for a beat too long. Jarmon cleared his throat.

Malcolm started guiltily, moving to stand at parade rest. “You sent for me, Lady Fiona?”

“Yes, Captain,” Fiona said, shooting a sideways glance at Jarmon’s frown. “The Queen has received our news. She is sending an entire company of cavalrymen to help fortify our borders, but regrets that she can do nothing for our navy; there simply aren’t any ships to spare.”

“I am glad that we are able to receive any aid at all, with things as they are. I will see to the distribution and lodging of the cavalrymen within Anaphe and submit the plans to you before the week is out. I still worry for our naval defenses, however. Have you had the opportunity to see the Admiral yet, my Lady?”

“He’s to come by this afternoon – had something happened?” Fiona asked, unable to keep the alarm from creeping into her voice.

“He received a dispatch from Kythria this morning, sent from Admiral Edgar via a rum trader. The Kythrian fleet was mobilized some two weeks past in an attempt to thwart a Westernese attack on Kilcoran.”

In her surprise, Fiona knocked over her coffee cup, nearly drenching the stack of proposals that sat on the table before her. Jarmon handed her a kerchief absently, one hand over his mouth in a show of surprised dismay.

“Any further news?” Fiona asked, blotting at the worst of the spill without taking her eyes from Malcolm.

“None. The dispatch cited Prince Valory and the crew of the _Windjammer_ as the source of information regarding the attack. There was also a mention of a Westernese prize that was taken, a schooner called the _Madesta_.”

“I suppose we cannot expect to hear the outcome for some time, yet.”

“Another fortnight at least. The battle would have taken place a week ago.”

“Why attack Kilcoran?” she asked. “They would have had to bypass Anaphe, Lyre, Kythria . . .”

“The inlet at Bightton is an incredible strategic stronghold. A small force could hold off against a much larger one due to the topography.”

“They are looking to establish a base, then,” Fiona said. She was rewarded by smiles from both Malcolm and Jarmon.

“Exactly, my Lady. The Admiral and I both doubt that capturing Kilcoran was their ultimate objective.”

“So the pirate vessels . . . ?”

“I suspect they were Westernese, yes,” Malcolm nodded. He hesitated. “My Lady, there is . . . more.”

“Of course there is,” she sighed.

“In his missive, Admiral Edgar mentioned his hope for success on account of the strategic brilliance of ‘ _your brother the Steward’_. His dispatch is addressed to the late Lord Conrad, of course, but . . .” Malcolm trailed off as Jarmon surged forward, gripping the edge of the table.

“Be certain, young man: is that what he wrote?”

“Yes. Admiral Edgar made no attempt to disguise his surprise at meeting one of Miran’s sons at the fort in Kalma.”

“Malcolm, can you remember the details?” Fiona pressed.

“He said he was surprised to see Miran’s son after so many years. I was unaware that Admiral Edgar had spent enough time in Armathia to make Lord Verne’s acquaintance,” Malcolm shrugged.

Jarmon and Fiona exchanged stunned looks. “We just received a missive from Lord Verne, dated two weeks past. He could not have been in Kalma,” Jarmon said.

“A Steward’s son, traveling with Prince Valory,” Fiona breathed, feeling her heart begin to pound. “He could not be an impersonator.”

“Certainly not with the Prince present,” Jarmon concurred.

“My Lady, do you think Admiral Edgar was writing about the Lost Steward?” Malcolm asked.

“Who else could it be? Is it true? Lord Jarmon?” she asked, a thrilled smile lighting up her features.

“My Lady, I’m afraid I must caution against too much speculation – or excitement – until we receive a formal dispatch on the matter,” Jarmon said.

“My uncle must have heard the news about my father. Surely it is circulating in the isles by now,” Fiona insisted. “He has come back in our time of need.”

Jarmon shook his head. It was only natural for the girl to be clinging to any hope of remaining family members. He hated to play the part of the pessimist, but it wouldn’t do to be rash over such a matter. “Remember, my Lady, that Lord Verne did not make any mention of him in his last letter. It would be unwise to let word of our suspicions slip until we have confirmation from Armathia.”

Fiona deflated, slumping back into her seat. “It feels as though we are always waiting on word from Armathia these days.”

Jarmon patted her hand. “Such is the nature of Oceanic politics. Perhaps the next dispatches will bring cause for celebration.”

Malcolm cleared his throat, shuffling. “My Lady, I am required back at the fort before the hour is out. Is there anything else I might assist you with?”

“Not at present, Captain Malcolm, although there are a few matters regarding the Armathian company I would like to discuss with you before you draw up your plans. Later this afternoon, perhaps?”

A small smile broke out across Malcolm’s face before he could prevent it. “Of course, my Lady. I am at your service.”

Fiona felt a blush tint her cheeks. “Very well, then. I will send for you later.”

“My Lady,” he murmured, bowing. “Lord Jarmon.”

Jarmon leveled a critical glance at Fiona once the door shut behind the Captain. “Be very, very careful there, my Lady. That is a rumor you cannot afford to start.”

Fiona’s blush deepened. “There is naught to tell, Lord Jarmon.”

“That is a lie if I’ve ever heard one,” Jarmon muttered. “Heed my advice, Lady Fiona: guard your heart well. The first touch of love may seem innocent, but it has all the power to sweep you along with it unaware. I would not wish to see you regret your actions.”

“Regret?” she asked, indignant. As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she hadn’t spoken.

“Just so. It would do you well to remember that there are consequences for the sort of affair you are contemplating – consequences that will weigh far more heavily upon your shoulders than his.”

“It is unfair,” she said petulantly, turning away to look out the window.

“Perhaps it is not what you desire, but that does not make it unfair. You were born to a privileged house in a time that has allowed you to become the only female viceroy in Anaphe’s history. I would consider forgoing a love affair with Captain Malcolm a fair price to pay in return.”

Fiona remained quiet for a few moments, weighing Jarmon’s words. “I will be careful.”

“I will be upset if I find out that you are saying that to placate me,” he warned.

“I will be careful,” she insisted, returning her attention to the stack of papers on the table between them. “Now, shall we review these proposals? I had some things in mind regarding the construction down at the docks . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> Siath (and Persephone) both know that Val is gay. Their enchantments (both Seers) would give them a perspective on his personal life that others (Val's father, the rest of his caste) wouldn't have. It makes them far more understanding than they might otherwise have been.


	14. Chapter 14

_The Season of Storms  
Ranár the 21; 2421_

With the vessel tacked around the shallow corals of Whitrock Reef, Jonah’s watch team stood down and Arden’s took the deck. Jonah and his men hustled below, doubtlessly glad to be out of the miserable rain that had dogged them ever since they slipped their mooring in Bightton a day earlier.

Arden hunkered down in front of the samson post, pulling his oilskin tight around his body. At least the seas weren’t rough; the weather was wet enough without taking waves over the bow whilst on watch. He frowned as he heard booted feet approaching the foredeck.

Valory slid down to sit beside him cross legged, hat tipped low over his brow. He regarded Arden from beneath the dripping brim. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”

“Furious,” Arden corrected, not taking his eyes from the misty grey horizon.

“I had thought you would be happy to have avoided this particular interrogation.”

“Over a matter so vital?” Arden asked, incredulous.

“We only confirmed our suspicions. It was a waste. The Commodore knew nothing of Januz’s business on Ithaka, though he had suspected something of the sort was forthcoming. These attacks were not planned by Belen.” He looked away from Arden. “He passed out before we could find out anything more. A stalemate, as usual.” His lips thinned, a bitter set to his features. “He even accused me of holding back.”

“A waste it may have been, but it was no reason to keep me from the interrogation. I may not like what we are doing, but my duty, my _place_ —” _is at your side_ , he wanted to say, but broke off before the words left his mouth. Something painful twisted inside his gut at the thought. He was forgetting himself more frequently these days. Truth be told, he was uncertain whether or not he was more upset because Valory had undertaken the interrogation about Elona without him, or because it hurt that Valory wasn’t obligated to ask him along. In official capacity, he was no more than a stand-in for Conrad. The thought stung more and more since Illen’s Arm.

“It isn’t that your mind wouldn’t have been welcome, Arden, you know that, but I’ve seen how this constant conflict has been affecting you—”

“Did you think me unable to perform my duty?”

“That was not the implication. If anyone has shirked duty, it has been I; for going ahead without your input.”

“But _why_?” Arden demanded.

Valory sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “I hate putting you through it,” he admitted. “Soft of me, but no less true for all of that. I hate commanding you to do something you find so repugnant. It makes me feel like a despot.”

Arden turned to regard him, grey-green eyes cool. “You decided you didn’t want me in the hold with you and Gabriel because my presence makes you feel like a despot?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“By all means then, _my Lord_ , do what you must to avoid such a distasteful feeling. Summon me at your leisure,” Arden growled, returning his attention to the horizon once more.

He felt Valory shift his attention to the water before them, angling his body to help keep an eye out for shallow reef formations. Arden figured that Valory was settling in, planning to patiently wait until Arden saw reason and accepted his apology.

Arden knew that he was taking his frustration out on the Prince, and was annoyed with himself for indulging in such petty behavior. Still, he couldn’t help the _hurt_ that flared through him every time he thought about Valory carrying out the interrogation without so much as a word to him first. It wasn’t that he had forgotten his place (or, lack thereof), but being reminded of it was nevertheless an unpleasant matter.

Arden knew that his anger should have been self-directed. He had shared his friendship, his counsel, and his bed knowing full well that Valory’s company was impermanent at best. Valory would soon be married. He would be sent to Anaphe to accept Conrad’s pledge. Arden would remain behind, trying to find some sort of purpose in Armathia; trying to make sense of it all. He wanted nothing more than to be useful – to have a role to play and a contribution to make. Working with Valory had given him a taste of that, and he regretted that it had to be over so soon.

If he were honest with himself, however, the vocational aspect of his time with Valory wasn’t all that he would miss. With the wind as constant as it had been, they would reach the capital in two weeks’ time, and this tour through the isles would feel as though it had never happened.

If only that weren’t the case. _If only_. Arden often considered _what if_ and _if only_ these days; thoughts he never gave much credence to before Valory stumbled back into his life. He struggled to remember every small detail of any interaction they had in the time before his ill-fated military service. The memories were hazy at best; they had spoken only a handful of times – a smattering of words that spanned nearly a decade, usually exchanged when Valory happened upon him in the library.

 _So many wasted opportunities_. Valory had always been reading interesting books, but Arden never mustered the courage to approach him in those days. What would have happened if he had? If he had sat down across from the man and asked his opinion on the Chronicles, on foreign politics, on the abundance of flora and fauna in Armathia’s tide pools? What could have been, had he only possessed the courage to walk up to the man and say ‘ _hello’_? How many more seasons might they have shared?

 _If only_. If only, during Valory’s first week aboard _Windjammer_ , Arden hadn’t pretended that his interest in the Kilcoranian verses was purely academic. If only he had returned Valory’s tactile displays of affection from the start. If only, instead of saying _‘goodbye’_ , he could figure out how to say _‘hello’_.

_Hello, Val. You are the best friend I have ever had._

_Hello, Val. I would follow you to the locker if you asked._

Arden’s lips flattened into a thin line. He was no stranger to sentiment, but had never had a friend and confidant quite like Valory. He should have known it would turn into this. He should have known it would be impossible to avoid.

A shake of his shoulder drew him out of his reverie. “Are you still in there?” Valory was asking, one of his small little smiles pulling at his lips.

“Just woolgathering,” Arden murmured. A cold trickle of rainwater dripped off of his hat and down his back.

“Care to share some of those thoughts?”

Arden tugged at the brim of his hat. “Only that I have no right to snap at you. You are under no obligation to seek my approval of your decisions.”

Valory shifted again so their shoulders were pressed together. “Perhaps not – but that doesn’t mean I was correct. If I had known this would upset you, I would have handled it differently.”

“Well, now you know.”

“Now I know. It won’t happen again.”

Arden felt a warm hand snake around the back of his neck, finger and thumb carefully avoiding his still-healing wounds and pressing into the muscles at the base of his skull. He let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure as all of the tension drained from his shoulders. Valory’s enchantment hummed through the contact.

“Did Little teach you that?”

“Among other things. I think he’s growing exasperated with my thirst for information. Is it alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Arden said, feeling better than he had in hours. He could push his fruitless thoughts out of his mind for the time being. Raising a hand, he pulled aside the collar of Valory’s oilskin just far enough to place a kiss upon the side of his neck.

 _Hello_ , he thought as Valory turned, bumping their foreheads together, hat brims bent between them. Valory rubbed his nose alongside Arden’s – a pleasant little caress – before pressing their lips together in a slow, warm kiss. The position invited streams of cold water to run down their backs, but neither seemed to care. They were both soaked to the bone anyway.

“We probably shouldn’t,” Valory finally said, pulling away. He dropped his cheek to rest on Arden’s shoulder.

“Not on bow watch,” Arden agreed. “Especially not whilst traversing the shoals. Callum would keelhaul us.”

“Perhaps . . . later?”

“We’re off watch in just under three hours. Ehrin has some hot conch soup waiting in the galley, and to be honest,” he smirked, “I would love to get out of these wet clothes.”

“I’ll take you up on that. I should change the dressing on your neck as well.”

“Please do – it has been itching like mad since the rain began. I’d like to leave the dressing off overnight this time. Would that be alright?”

“Only if you leave off everything else as well,” Valory said, playfully nipping at Arden’s earlobe.

“Keep doing that and _Windjammer_ will run aground before I notice we’re aimed for a shoal,” Arden warned.

“If it even takes that much. Callum has Imran on the helm; some theory that it might help with his seasickness.”

“It might. But at least that explains why we’ve been weaving like a drunken sailor.”

Valory snorted. “At least he’s concentrating hard enough that he’s stopped muttering about sea-witches.”

“Really? I thought we would be hearing about it all the way to Armathia.”

“Let’s hope not.” He paused, eyes narrowing at the water before them. “Did you see that breaker? Port side?”

“Yes, hold on,” Arden said, extracting himself from Valory’s embrace to shift over on his knees and catch Callum’s eye. He pointed, indicating the location of the shallow spot, waiting until Callum acknowledged the message before turning around again, sitting and leaning back against Valory’s shoulder once more.

“I take it you’re no longer angry with me, then?” Valory asked.

Arden shook his head, willing thoughts of _goodbye_ and _if only_ away from his mind. “Let’s not speak of this anymore.”

“Alright,” Valory acquiesced, pausing for a moment to grapple for another topic of conversation. A quick glance over at Arden confirmed that he was wearing his First Officer face, staring out at the strip of shallow rock off of their port bow. “It’s amazing how quickly the water can go so treacherously shallow,” Valory remarked, nodding at the white capped waves breaking over the crest of the reef.

“The water is like that all around here.”

“Why hug Whitrock Reef, then? We could head east to avoid the shallows.”

“ _Windjammer_ has a shallow draft, so we’re not at as much risk as other vessels might be. Besides, it wouldn’t do to waste time heading east in search of deeper water,” Arden pointed out.

“Given the circumstances, I suppose that’s accurate. Do you know much about the formation of shoals like that one?” he asked, gesturing to the crest to port.

“What would you like to know?” Arden asked, eyes lighting up at the prospect of discussing reef morphology with the Prince.

“Anything you can tell me,” Valory answered, another small smile tugging at his lips as Arden launched into an enthusiastic explanation about the coral animal.

It may have been a nasty day for a sail, but at least the company was excellent.

…

“For Ranael’s sake, Jonah, close the hatch before you drown me,” Ehrin grumbled from her post at the stove.

“Pass up some of that hot stew first – I’m freezing my bollocks off,” he complained, gesturing at his dripping hair and clothing.

“Get any more water in my galley and you’ll have real reason to be concerned for your bollocks,” Ehrin threatened, snagging a set of mugs out of the cupboard and spooning portions of stew into each of them. Mugs would make it easier for those on deck to eat as they stood watch.

“Is that the Galley Tyrant I hear, rearing its ugly head?” Jonah asked, reaching down for one of the mugs.

“Oh yes, the Tyrant – at it again. Just be glad that the iron fist with which I rule also saw fit to make a big batch of cocoa for you lot. It should go with the butter cookies; I’ll leave it on the stove so it’s nice and hot when your watch finishes.”

“Hot cocoa? I take back everything bad I ever said about you,” Jonah teased. “The stew smells great.”

“Now you’re just kissing arse,” Ehrin accused. “I hope it warms you all up; it’s been raining for far too long.”

“Six days. It might be the Season of Storms, but I’m still starting to think we should join the Dramorian in his prayers to Arrar come sunset.”

Ehrin laughed, handing up the final mug. “If we don’t see sun before we enter the Gulf, I daresay I just might. Now please, Jonah; dog the hatch. This is my last dry shirt.”

“At least you _have_ a dry shirt,” Jonah muttered as the hatch thumped shut above her head.

Ehrin tidied up the galley, wiping down the countertop where the driving rain had splattered all over her cookware. She added a pinch of spice to the cocoa before returning her attention to the stew. With practiced efficiency she laid out a tray for two; first bowls of stew, then freshly-baked buns, then butter cookies. Two mugs of grog joined the spread before she hefted up the tray, balancing it and picking her way into the salon.

Valory and Jack ( _no, not Jack_ , she reminded herself, _Arden_ ) sat in the middle of the room, an enormous coil of line spread out between them. Their heads were bent close together, still-wet hair pulled away from their faces. They, like Jonah, seemed to be out of dry clothing; their damp shirts clung to their skin while tiny pools of water formed around their boots.

Ehrin watched them from the companionway for a few moments. Valory was working with a marlinspike, brow drawn down in concentration as he attempted his first eye splice. Based on the thickness of the line, Ehrin guessed that Arden was planning to replace the fraying jib halyard. Arden watched him work, interfering on occasion with a word of correction or encouragement, brushing his fingers over the backs of the Prince’s knuckles each time. They murmured back and forth to one another, quiet words of conversation as they worked.

From the comfortable intimacy of their pose, Ehrin figured that they had (finally) become lovers. She couldn’t say for certain when it had happened – the two men had been close companions nearly from the start – but seeing them alone together for the first time in weeks made the change obvious. The Prince was nearly sitting in Arden’s lap, after all, and Arden was doing nothing if not leaning into the touch.

Ehrin smiled at the scene. There had been a time in her life – years ago – when she had been besotted with _Windjammer_ ’s First Mate. She didn’t feel very much nostalgia for those days; she had been young and more taken with the idea of love than Arden himself. Besides, as she grew to know him better her error had become obvious, and the flight of fancy had passed. The crew still teased her for missing the clues for so long. She and Arden laughed about it from time to time, for which she was grateful. Even when she had been moony-eyed, he had always been very kind to her.

Ehrin stepped forward into the room, bending to lay the tray down on the ground before them. They pulled apart, Arden starting guiltily. She shook her head with a knowing smile. “There’s cocoa on the stove as well, if you like.”

“That sounds perfect,” he said, relaxing back into Valory’s side. “It’s not even cold out, and yet . . .”

“None of us have been dry for days, save Niko. I’m chilled as well,” Valory answered. “Thank you for the meal, Ehrin.”

“You’re most welcome, my Lord,” she said, ducking out of the room as Arden reached out to correct Valory’s marlinspike work once more, fingers closing around his wrist. Valory must have said something amusing, for Arden’s low chuckle followed her out. She tried to remember the last time she had seen her friend appear so content.

Ehrin reentered the galley with a sigh, putting together another tray of food with brisk efficiency. This time she included two mugs of cocoa. It was a nice thing to see Arden so at peace with himself; he had done much for Windjammer and her crew – enough that Ehrin considered him akin to a brother, these days. Nevertheless, observing his easy companionship with Valory brought a pang of sadness to her breast. It wasn’t that she wanted Arden – no, those days were long gone. Rather, she wanted what he had _found_ : a kindred spirit, a bosom friend, a lover.

Ehrin shook her head, picking up the tray and heading up the ladder. She darted across the short strip of wet deck to the midships companionway and descended all the way down into the hold. She found that she was actually looking forward to breaking bread with the Commodore these days, even if the majority of their meals were spent in silence. She let out another long sigh as she headed down the final ladder into _Windjammer_ ’s belly. Need she any more proof of her loneliness than that?

Félix sat in his usual spot, knees drawn up to his chest. He had a blanket that Ehrin had brought him wrapped around his shoulders. Even though he hadn’t been out on deck, he wasn’t impervious to the inexorable dampness of the weather.

“Does the season get this chilly in Belen as well?” she asked, setting the tray down between them.

Félix regarded her for a quiet moment. “No. This is colder. I think I feel more chill because I cannot move.”

“Ah,” Ehrin said, looking away from the manacle on his left ankle. It was a frequent point of contention between them.

Félix picked at his meal slowly, savoring the heat of it whilst caught up in his own thoughts. Ehrin found herself imagining how miserable it would be to spend weeks bound to the same small, wet spot. It was difficult to remember, when she was down here, that the man before her was responsible for the horrors she had seen at Illen’s Arm.

They hadn’t spoken for days after the battle. Ehrin was too angry: despite all of her small kindnesses towards him, Félix would have allowed them to walk into the sea-witches’ trap. Félix, for his part, had appeared shaken and resentful after the interrogations resumed. Though their meals were strained, he had yet to return to his former habit of kicking cutlery into the bilge.

The first words he spoke to her came the day after they received news from Elona. Ehrin had lost her patience with him, feeling frustrated and helpless, knowing that her Ithakan friends were suffering while Félix and his underlings refused to part with any more information. She had shouted at him until her voice was hoarse, pacing the hold in frustration, nearly tearing at her hair. _‘How can you do the bidding of those terrible creatures? How can you raise an arm against your fellow man in their name?’_

Félix had glowered throughout her speech, face softening only as she described the viciousness of the witches, and how she and her father had nearly fallen prey to a pack of them before the Bightton fleet arrived. Her tirade ended as she rattled off the number of injured and dead on both sides. It was clear that she held him responsible for the casualties. There were so, so many.

 _‘I’m glad you weren’t among them,’_ Félix had said, silencing her immediately.

 _‘What?’_ she had asked, confused.

 _‘You are not as bad as the rest of your kind,’_ he responded by way of clarification. Ehrin had paled and left the hold, then, conflicting thoughts racing through her. She didn’t return to take his plates until the next day. Since then, they had spoken no more on the subject.

“I hate this time of year,” Ehrin said, breaking the silence in an attempt to interrupt her thoughts.

“Hm,” Félix grunted.

“A spot of rain is alright during the hotter seasons, but days of it on end . . . it’s dreadful living shipboard during the Season of Storms. Though I suppose living in town would be just as wretched,” she continued, speaking as much to herself as to the Commodore. “At least we’re the better part of the way through it. The weather will be calming soon, and my favorite holiday is coming up in a few months.”

“Hm.”

“What sort of holidays do you have in Belen?”

Félix looked up from his stew, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. “We celebrate victories and days of birth.”

“As do we. Of course we have days dedicated to each of our Gods as well,” she hastened to add. “Is it just secular holidays in Belen, or do you celebrate other things?”

“Such as?”

“Creation? The beginning of all things?”

“Is the celebration of one’s birth not a celebration of creation?”

“I guess it is, after a fashion. I’m curious; if you do not worship the Gods, then how do you think that your people came to be?”

“You think your gods are responsible for all existence as well?” Félix asked.

“Not literally, of course, but in a manner of speaking. There is something far greater than us out there,” she said, gesturing with spoon.

For a few minutes Ehrin thought that Félix was planning on ignoring her question and went back to eating her stew. He surprised her by picking up the thread of conversation after finishing his bread. “We came from the rivers,” he said, eyes flicking up to Ehrin’s face as though to gauge her reaction.

“The rivers?”

“There are two rivers in Madesta; they flow from the mountains out to sea. My people believe we are children of the river.”

“You sprung fully-formed out of the river?” Ehrin asked, leaning forward. She was fascinated; the Westernese myth was very different from any other she had heard.

“No, we are . . . how do you say it, we come from the creatures of the river, we . . .” Félix trailed off, frustrated with his imperfect grasp of Oceanic.

“Descendants? You are descendants of the creatures of the river?” Ehrin offered.

“Yes. Descendants. We came from the creatures of the river, but we have grown and changed with time to live off of the land,” Félix completed.

Félix was watching her reaction, the low-lighting in the hold making his expression appear even more severe. Ehrin tilted her head. He had the angular features and pale complexion of a Dramorian, but that was where the similarities ended. She wondered whether all of his people resembled him. “Do you celebrate the day you came from the river?” she asked.

“No; they say that leaving the river took many years. We celebrate the rains.”

“Because rain makes the river swell?” Ehrin asked.

“Yes. Our great holiday was a month ago, the first day of . . . your people call it Ranár.”

“That was the day before we crossed paths.”

“It was. We had some celebration. This whole month is considered what you would call ‘holy’.”

“Oh,” Ehrin said, feeling guilty once again. She was frustrated by that guilt; she didn’t like the thought that the Commodore was spending his holiday season in chains. At the same time, it was his fault that so many of her own people wouldn’t live to celebrate Oceana’s next holiday in Erád. A thought struck her then. “You said Madesta, before.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t – wasn’t – that the name of your ship?”

“Madesta is the ancient name for the lands west of the mountains.”

“So all of the people in the territories – even though they be of different states – think that they came from the same place?” Ehrin asked.

“We do.”

“Then what makes your people so divisive?”

“We have never been permitted unity,” he hissed. “We have always been wanted for a colony, and through our own weakness, have allowed it to happen.”

“I thought that some of the Westernese states had old feuds with one another, and that’s what caused the divisiveness.”

Félix snorted. “Yes, because the elder generations are all idiots who cling to the old ways, and would rather see us enslaved than try to cooperate with one another.” He paused, jabbing his spoon back into the bowl. “You blame me for Ithaka, yes? That is incorrect of you. I have nothing to do with Januz. I have spent most of my life as a Captain fighting Januz.”

“Then why, if you have been engaged in ceaseless war with them, do you want your elders to put aside your differences?” Ehrin asked. “Wouldn’t you have just as much reason as any other to hate your neighboring state?”

“I have reason, yes, but I can put it aside when there is much to gain. The elders do not _see_. They do not understand. Every year at tribal council we have the same arguments over taxes and territories. Dramor uses these arguments to keep us from rising up and getting stronger. My people let them. They do not have the vision. They do not see what we could be.”

“You have a dream of a unified Madesta,” Ehrin said, nodding. The Commodore was still stumbling over his Oceanic, but the intensity of his words was compelling. There was no doubt that he felt deeply about his people. It was the most he had spoken in weeks.

“Yes. I dream of a Madesta that is unified and free. It is a dream that many are beginning to share with me. My people – the people of Belen – have come to agree with my vision. We still have enemies, though they, too, are starting to see the glory of what could be. I had petitioned to go to council this year, but . . .” he trailed off, eyes flicking down to his manacled ankle.

“What is this council?” Ehrin asked.

“All five clans meet every year to discuss politics. It is meant to be peaceful, but often ends in conflict. Sometimes in war.” Félix shook his head.

“This year’s council must be very important, then.”

“Wouldn’t you think it important to overthrow Dramor and win freedom for your people?” Félix asked, eyes flashing.

“Of course. It’s why we retook Anaphe during King Durand’s time. I can see why you named your ship _Madesta_. This is your life’s work. You named her for your country,” Ehrin said. She didn’t want to sympathize with the man, but he was making it difficult not to. Her only consolation was that she would be able to report the contents of this conversation back to Prince Valory. She hoped it would be useful.

“I named her for the country that could be, were we not relegated to fighting over scraps to pay tithes and tariffs,” Félix growled.

“Ah,” she said, looking away from his intense stare. The passion with which he spoke was moving; it wouldn’t do to get caught up in it.

Félix picked up his grog and took a long draught. He seemed to have run out of words. They fell into a long silence. Ehrin figured it would likely continue for the rest of the meal; she had become used to Félix’s bursts of chatter and subsequent muteness, and didn’t think much of it.

Typically they spent the quiet moments of their meals doing their best to ignore one another. This time Félix watched her over the rim of his mug. Hesitantly, she returned the scrutiny. The lantern light proved that his eyes were not Dramorian-dark, but had a color in them; the slightest bit of green, like the shell of a tortoise. One of his hands batted at the hair that was falling forward onto his forehead. Ehrin figured that he would want a haircut soon, as Westernese men always kept their hair shorn short. His hair was nearly as dark as a Dramorian’s, but curled as Valory’s would have, had he cropped it close to his head.

“When is your holiday, the one you like so much?” Félix asked, breaking the silence.

Ehrin started, surprised. It took her a moment to recall their earlier conversation and formulate her reply. “We celebrate the Banishment. There is a great feast and celebration. There are plays reenacting bits of the Chronicles – it is a great honor for an actor to play Eramen that time of year – as well as all sorts of sport competitions, musical performances . . .” Ehrin trailed off, thinking about the festivities she remembered from her childhood. “At midnight there is a procession to the altars of Fángon and Illen, where people lay gifts and sing songs. It’s said that our Gods are more likely to grant wishes on that night as well, which is the longest of the year.”

“It is as all holidays are – eating, drinking, merrymaking,” Félix noted.

“What would a holiday be without any of those things? On Kilcoran we have special little cakes that are made – for luck, you see. A Royal is baked at the bottom of each one. Whoever gets the slice with the Royal is thought to be especially blessed that year. It’s tradition to give the Royal to one’s closest friend so they can share in the luck.”

“You are from Kilcoran?” Félix asked, mouth set in a grim line.

“Yes,” she said, looking away. “My family is from Bightton. My father and I try to be back on Kilcoran to celebrate the Banishment each year, but it doesn’t always work out that way. I have a feeling that we’ll be away this year.”

“You are speaking of the battle to come at Ithaka.”

Ehrin shrugged. She knew better than to speak of their marching orders to an enemy Commodore. “To be honest I think we’ll probably be in Armathia for the holidays this year. I’ll miss home, of course, but I’ve never celebrated in the capital before. They decorate the streets with garlands of flowers and the royal family joins the midnight procession along with the common folk. I’d really like to see that.”

“Traveling on a litter or in a carriage is not the same as going on foot,” Félix countered.

“Why says they travel in a carriage?”

“Hm,” Félix scoffed.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“As if your tyrant King would lower himself to walk the streets like a commoner,” he sniffed.

“Prince Valory seems like he would,” Ehrin countered.

“Hm,” Félix rolled his eyes, finishing the rest of his cocoa in a single gulp.

“Don’t get me wrong, he carries himself as a Prince should, for the most part. It’s really only with J—Lord Arden that he indulges, but he does. He comes out to the tavern with the crew, joins us in the occasional song or game of cards. He’s not as snooty as some highborn men I’ve met.”

Ehrin realized that she was wasting her breath when it came to defending Valory to Félix. She wondered whether or not Félix understood that the Prince used force in interrogations only because he had no other choice. She overheard the Prince’s prayers on occasion, when he failed to notice her presence on deck during a watch change.  They were not the prayers of a man who found it easy to strap another to the board.

“Hm.” Félix looked away, pulling the blanket tighter about his shoulders. He stretched a long leg out as far as it could go in the cramped quarters, groaning as he shifted where he sat.

“Your legs must be sore,” Ehrin said, trying to remember the last time she had seen the Commodore change position.

“I cannot stand, I cannot sit,” he said with a shrug, making as though the conditions of his imprisonment were irrelevant for him.

“Perhaps when the weather is nicer I’ll see if you can take a turn about the deck, make sure your legs stay in working order,” she offered.

Félix looked back at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”

“As angry at you as I am for what you’ve done, I still find it unpleasant to think of anyone suffering on my ship. I’d like to think I’m a bit better than the sort that seeks petty revenge.”

“Like all Oceanic, you think this impulse of soft charity makes you better than others,” Félix sneered.

“Doesn’t it, though?” Ehrin asked pointedly, gathering up the tray and standing. “Good afternoon, Félix. I’ll bring some more of that cocoa for your supper if there’s any left, since you seemed to like it so much.”

Félix watched her go in silence, features set in a thoughtful scowl.

He preferred the board to this absurd mercy.

…

Arden leaned back with a laugh, wiping the sweat off of his forehead. “Remind me to avoid you in the practice ring when we return to Armathia; were it not for _Windjammer_ ’s heel, I figure you would have swabbed the deck with me.”

A slow smile spread across Imran’s face as he relaxed his stance, letting his blades hang at his sides. “Of course. Nevertheless, you are improving.”

“Oh? Was that a compliment?” Arden teased, leaving the borrowed blades down on the housetop to tip up the flask of water for a quick drink. Though it was still overcast, the rains had stopped and the humid heat was overwhelming.

“As I said before, you are a quick study,” Imran said stiffly, sheathing his blades behind his back with ease. “If you continue your practice with the twin blades, I think you will also see improvements with the cutlass.”

“I don’t doubt it; you are a hard taskmaster.”

“Be glad you never had the occasion to serve under any of mine.”

A brief flicker of sadness passed across Arden’s face, one which Imran did not miss. Arden glanced away, hand coming up to rub at the bandages over his neck. “I suppose I haven’t, at that.”

Imran frowned. Contrary to popular belief, he did occasionally understand the subtext in a conversation; this was one of those times. “If you like, we can work more on the second stance. Your form is still off,” he said, hoping to draw Arden’s thoughts away from the particular taskmaster his careless words had brought to mind.

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid I have to decline. I can feel myself starting to burn.”

“It is overcast,” Imran pointed out.

“Dramorian,” Arden rolled his eyes. “Sometimes those days are the worst. Besides, I think my bandages need to be changed; I’ve sweat clean through these.”

“How is your wound?”

“Better, certainly. It’s starting to scab in places. How long did it take before yours healed over?”

Imran shrugged, a graceful roll of his shoulders. “A fortnight. The neck must be worse, with the stretching of the skin.”

“That’s what I’ve been told. With the welts on your thigh, though – I can’t imagine. It must have hurt to sit down,” Arden frowned.

“For the first week,” Imran admitted. “Afterwards, less.” He frowned, studying Arden through narrowed eyes. “You are not still in great pain, are you? You must go see one of the Healers if that is the case.”

“No, not great pain,” Arden shook his head. “Val has been very attentive. I daresay he’s taking my injury more seriously than I am; he’s always checking on its progress.”

“Is he a strong Healer?”

“We don’t really know yet; he’s just learning how to manage the power of his enchantment. It’s difficult to tell by signature alone, what with his other enchantment getting in the way. I suppose he very well might be, though – he has given me much comfort even with the few things he has managed to pick up since we left Lyre.”

“That is good.”

“It is,” Arden said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “He’s a natural with the small aches – muscles and swelling and the like. Next time you’ve got a headache . . .” he trailed off, seeing the discomfited look twisting Imran’s features. “Right. Sorry, I suppose enchantments are still an oddity for you. It must have taken you a while to adjust to it.”

Imran frowned. “I would not trouble my Commander with a thing so petty as an aching head. I am made to understand that using enchantments takes energy.”

“Ah. Right, of course. That is kind of you,” Arden answered, eyes sliding over towards the quarterdeck where Valory was seated, devouring a text on Westernese dialects.

“It is not the same as with you,” Imran hastened to assure him, realizing that he had put his foot in it again. “He offers his services to you. You do not beg for them.”

Arden felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “I—”

“That is not what I meant,” Imran snapped, a look of pure horror crossing his features.

“I know you didn’t try for the double meaning, I just . . .” Arden trailed off, trying to quell the laughter that threatened to rise in his throat.

Imran looked like had swallowed a bag of nails. “I do not discuss such matters in that way. I do, on occasion, goad Valory, but that is only because he does the same to me. Often. Such jesting is a new thing for me. I have yet to grow used to it. We do not discuss sexual activities openly in Dramor.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable – now or any other time.”

“You have begun sharing a bed with my Commander; you are both men and it is an inclination that I do not understand. I find it unpleasant to think about all of this. It is not permitted in Dramor – you must know that.”

“I’m aware that it’s considered a perversion,” Arden said.

Imran made a face. “You misunderstand. Yes, that is what I was taught in Dramor. My father told my brothers and me that men like you are deformed. I believed it for many years. Working with Valory has shown me otherwise, but I still do not really _understand_.”

“Ah,” Arden said, comprehension dawning.

“Yes. And you know I do not have very much . . . what is the word . . . tact. Such topics cause me discomfort because someone always becomes very angry with me afterwards.”

“No worse than the reactions of barmaids, I’d wager,” Arden teased.

Imran scowled. “The barmaids are not my Commander, nor my friends. It does not bother me when I insult them. I do not like insulting you.”

“If you have any questions, you can always ask them of me.” He didn’t think Imran would take him up on the offer.

 “I still do not understand the desire to lie with another man. Little once tried to explain it to me. Something about physical company during long campaigns, but this does not make sense to me. None have longer or lonelier campaigns than the four of us, yet we do not seek any relief with one another.”

“It’s not something that _everyone_ does,” Arden said, wondering how he had managed to wind up in this conversation, and praying to Illen that someone would interrupt it.

“You do not do it, either. At least, that is not what you and Valory are doing. Your relations are not about seeking relief.”

Arden felt his face grow hot. “I . . . no. No, I suppose there is more to it than that.”

“You are like Valory; you do not like women.”

“I like women well enough, just not as bedfellows.”

Imran nodded, processing this piece of information. “You and he are different than the sort of thing that Little explained to me. You are _friends-who-love_. Or is it _friends-who-make-love_? Or are you _lovers_?” he asked, switching to Dramorian words in order to make the distinction between concepts. A strangled noise escaped Arden’s throat. “I see I have said something wrong again. Ah. You do not even know the answer to my question. I apologize; I have insulted you with my curiosity.”

Finding his voice, Arden assured him, “It’s alright, Imran. I’d rather you ask me outright than make assumptions or insinuations. It must be an awkward thing for you as well, to have all of these indelicate questions banging about in your head and no one to direct them at. Though I’m sure Val would answer them just as readily.”

Imran shot him a withering look that made it clear that he would never dream of asking his Commander such things, no matter how impertinent others perceived him to be. “I will not ask him about this, not now. You and he have not done any thinking about it.”

“No, to be honest; I suppose we haven’t.”

“It is not my place to have you do so.”

“Glad you know that.”

“Yet it is very unlike Valory not to think things through,” Imran mused. After scrutinizing Arden for a few moments, he asked, “Conrad is your brother, is he not?”

Arden felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at the words. The implication was clear, as was the train of thought that had brought Imran there. “Family matters can be complicated,” he replied, answering the question that Imran hadn’t exactly asked. “I suppose you’ll get a taste of that, if this conflict we’re in turns into a full-scale war with Dramor.”

The curl of Imran’s lip conveyed his amusement with the way Arden had turned the tables, as well as acceptance over the fact that he should let the subject of Valory drop for the time being. “You are correct. I may have to raise arms against my own family.”

Arden winced. “Probably callous of me to bring it up.”

“It is a reality.”

“Yes, I guess it’s the kind of world we live in these days.”

Imran nodded, dark eyes regarding Arden solemnly. “It is. Which is why I think it must be a good thing when people come together in amity rather than in violence.”

Arden swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank me for.” Imran’s eyes flicked towards the quarterdeck briefly. “I will leave you to get your dressing changed now.”

“I hope you don’t feel like you have to make yourself scarce; besides, Val’s caught up in his reading at the moment.”

“Is he? I believe he has been studying you more than his book.”

“I—” Arden gaped, turning back to the quarterdeck. He caught Valory looking this time. The Prince offered up a guilty wave.

“If my presence is required, you will find me in the fo’c’sle,” Imran said, making his way back towards the foredeck.

Arden turned aft. If the Prince was more interested in his company than the treatise on Westernese dialects, who was he to deny the man a bit of a distraction?

…

The night they crossed into the Gulf, Arden lay awake listening to the rain pound the deck above his head. Though the wind whistled through the shrouds and the halyards thumped against the mast, he knew that the weather hadn’t turned enough to call for all hands. He hoped the storm would hold off; he had no desire to leave the dry comfort of his cabin, even if sleep eluded him.

Valory was murmuring little snatches of conversation in his sleep, shifting occasionally to bury his head further into Arden’s shoulder. He seemed to be soothed by the sensation of Arden’s fingers in his hair as they teased out the worst of the tangles and traced patterns over his scalp. As much as Arden tried to convince himself that he was still awake because of the weather, he knew that wasn’t why he was reluctant to sleep. They were only a few days out from Armathia, and his time with Val was coming to a close.

He swallowed against the lump that threatened to rise in his throat. He had been putting thoughts of Armathia out of his mind as best as he could, but they had returned with a vengeance over the past several days. He worried over the reception he would get from Verne and his father. He wondered whether or not he would be allowed to sit with the council called to strategize over retaking Elona. He feared that his opinions and observations would be derided and dismissed just as they had been in his youth.

He had once told Valory that he was accustomed to such derision. He had spoken the truth, but there remained a great difference between putting up with Captain Colton’s contempt and fielding such scorn from his own family. Moreover, he knew that he would find the criticisms ever more difficult to bear while he was mourning the loss of Valory’s companionship.

Arden knew that Valory would not abandon their friendship entirely; he had long since proven to be a better sort of man than that. It was the rest that Arden would morn. The thing that had grown between them would be left unacknowledged and unvoiced once they were home.

Arden tightened his grip around Valory’s shoulders, prompting the man to nuzzle against his collarbone and mutter something about water rations. Since leaving Bightton, they had returned to Arden’s cabin together at the end of every night watch. Arden knew better than to say anything about it aloud, though there were times when he marveled that they weren’t yet tired of one another’s company. They had both proved nearly insatiable, in fact, often cornering one another off-watch in the daytime. Arden was certain that he would never look at the chain locker the same way ever again.

They spent almost every moment of leisure time together, as well. They would lie awake for hours at night spinning theories about the motivations of the Sea-Witch King, the diplomatic relationship between Januz and Belen, or the reason why octopi needed precisely eight tentacles apiece. They traded tales of the places they had visited and adventures they’d had; including one memorable occasion during which Valory had coaxed the stories of some of Arden’s scars from him by tracing them with his tongue ( _‘Knife wound. Bar fight. Fell through the – that tickles! – through the galley hatch once—’_ ).

On some of the rainier afternoons and evenings when no more work could be done, they brought books to bed to read aloud over mugs of cocoa or grog. Those were some of Arden’s fondest memories, ones which he planned on keeping pressed close to his heart: memories of drifting off to sleep to the sound of Valory reading aloud from the Chronicles. Of being woken up again to low recitations of the Kilcoranian verses, breathed in his ear. To Val growing impatient and punctuating each line break with a kiss down the center of his chest—

 _I don’t want to say goodbye to you_ , Arden thought miserably, pressing his lips to Valory’s hairline. _If only it weren’t for duty._ He shook his head, cutting that thought off. Duty was everything to Valory; it wouldn’t do to pretend otherwise. _If only he weren’t betrothed to Sybina_ , his mind supplied. That was the crux of the matter, after all. _If he were a free man, it would be so much simpler. Armathia would hold no sway over us, then. I could make right my decades old mistake and speak my mind plainly. ‘Hello, Val – that’s an interesting text. Might I read with you?’ ‘Hello, Val – care to come back to mine for a nightcap this evening?’ ‘Hello, Val – you may be my brother’s Regent, but you will ever be more than that to me.’_

_Gods, when did this happen? This is precisely what I tried to avoid._

Valory let out a pained grunt. For a brief moment Arden feared he had spoken aloud; then Valory twisted again, mumbling incoherently and kicking against the sheets that wrapped around his legs. He gasped, pushing against Arden’s chest so hard they almost toppled out of the bunk. Even in the dim light of the cabin, Arden could see the sweat beading on his brow, the panic-stricken look that froze his features. Valory let out another whine, thrashing in Arden’s arms. Arden tightened his grip on Valory’s shoulders.

“Val,” he whispered, “Val. You’re dreaming.”

Valory snapped awake at the sound of Arden’s voice, breath coming in great gasps. Even though he stilled immediately upon waking, Arden could feel the shivers running through his frame.

“It’s alright,” Arden continued, a hand moving up to stroke through Valory’s sweat-damp hair. “Just a nightmare. Catch your breath.”

Valory’s arm snaked around Arden’s waist, cheek resuming its place on Arden’s shoulder. His breath came ragged against the side of Arden’s neck. Everyone had nightmares, of course – Arden knew that – but it was still something else to have Valory shuddering in his arms, struggling to fight off the last vestiges of whatever had terrified him so. On a hunch, Arden reached up to press the palm of his hand against the side of Valory’s face, fingers almost-but-not-quite-touching the silvered scars that cut through the corner of his right brow and cheekbone. Valory’s breath hitched in his chest, his entire body drawing up taut as a bowstring. He stayed that way for a few moments before slumping down, half-draped across Arden’s chest.

The cabin was silent as Valory’s breathing and heartbeat slowed down to normal. Arden was beginning to think the man had been lulled back to sleep when he finally shifted, lifting his head up to study Arden’s face in the low light.

“How did you know?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“The way you were breathing,” Arden admitted, thumb swiping around the edges of Valory’s scar a final time before sliding down to rest between his shoulder blades. “You sounded as though you couldn’t get enough air.”

“You were right.”

“You dreamt of the Sea-Witch King?”

“I dreamt that I was drowning.”

“Do you often dream of that?”

“Yes. It is not the only nightmare I have, but it is the most common.”

“Is it really a dream, or is it a memory?” Arden asked.

“Both. The narrative changes sometimes – it doesn’t always involve the Sea-Witch King, for example – but in the end it is always the same as it was that night. I drown, or . . .” a bitter twist of lips, “I drown another.”

“You didn’t cry out,” Arden noted. That didn’t surprise him.

“I tend not to.”

“Are you alright?” he asked, tucking his chin so he was nose-to-nose with Valory.

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “It’s comforting to wake up to another’s company.” He frowned. “I woke you, didn’t I?”

“No, no. I was awake already; I have difficulty sleeping when the weather is on the edge of turning,” he lied.

Valory made a face. Arden wasn’t fooling him. He cocked his head, listening to the sound of the rain pelting the deck. “It’s going to be murder going out in that, isn’t it? How long do we have?”

“Another hour, I’d say.”

“No point going back to sleep then, is there?” Valory sighed.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I apologize for robbing you of your rest.”

“Don’t; I meant it when I said I had been awake for some time. Besides, you’re not the only one who has unpleasant dreams,” Arden replied.

“You have slept peacefully these past few weeks.”

“I suppose it’s only a matter of time,” Arden said, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth. _Two more nights until we reach Armathia. Not enough time._

“That, or you dream in silence.”

“Perhaps. When I was younger I used to wake Verne and Conrad at least once a week. Since my time on _Windjammer_ I’ve quieted, but I doubt I remain immobile. You’d have known if I’d had one. You wake easily.”

Valory considered this. “I used to walk in my sleep, as a child.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. My father was worried what it would mean for my military career, but the problem corrected itself after my enchantment developed.”

“That’s interesting; I thought only developing Seers struggled with such issues,” Arden said.

“I think my sleepwalking was more garden-variety. My brother, on the other hand . . .” Valory blew out a long breath. “Gods, it’s a good thing he was so personable during the day, because at night he used to wake up screaming or throwing things half the time. It was a blissful relief when his enchantment finally reached maturation. Were your dreams like that? Terrors?”

“Oh yes: only not so frequent. I think it added to their confusion.”

“How so?”

“My nightmares had the strength of one who would develop an impressive talent, yet my ability as a Seer turned out to be minor. That was fairly in-character for me, though. I was a difficult child: many things about me were a little ‘off’,” Arden replied.

“It interests me to hear about those years from your perspective. You must know what a shock it was to me when we met again. You have changed much since you were last in Armathia,” Valory admitted.

“Thank the Gods for that.”

“Yet I remember being impressed with your intellect even then. Your words may not have been numerous, but they were always well-chosen.”

“Well-chosen, perhaps, but usually forced. I’m sure you had heard rumors of my recalcitrance; I didn’t speak much outside of my lessons. I struggled with the concept of companionship until long after leaving Armathia.”

“I had heard. I’m glad you’ve since changed your mind – for my sake, at least.” Valory smiled down at him, a smile that Arden found impossible not to return. “What did you do to while away the hours that others would have spent frolicking with their friends?”

“Under the tutelage of Armathia’s priests, I can’t say I had all that much free time,” Arden shrugged. “When I did, I took extra projects upon myself, conducted my own research and experiments, translated and recopied old works – that sort of thing.”

“Research? Of what kind?”

“Scientific, mostly,” Arden said, warming to the topic. “I wanted to be a naturalist. I used to spend hours upon hours exploring tide pools on the windward shore when the tide was down. I wrote a treatise about the communities of creatures that inhabit them; it’s probably still in the palace library.”

“How old were you when you wrote it?”

“It was the work of several years. The idea came upon me when I was fourteen or fifteen; I wanted to create a comprehensive catalog of all of the plants and animals that inhabited the pools. That alone took years, owing mostly to the fact that I had to learn how to draw meticulous renditions of the creatures I was describing.”

“You’re an artist as well?” Valory asked, impressed.

Arden made a noncommittal noise. “Not a very good one. I have a facile hand at duplication, but that’s only from hours and hours of painstaking practice. Nevertheless, I was able to hone the skill to the point where I made a passable field guide.”

“Did you make any discoveries?”

“I did catalogue one species of chiton that had previously gone unnoticed.”

“How old were you then?”

“When I discovered the chiton? Seventeen, I think. Your father’s naturalist named it after me.”

“That’s a remarkable achievement, especially for one so young.”

“Well, as you said – lack of companionship left me with a fair bit of time on my hands. Besides, I’ve always been a particular admirer of chitons; I find their symmetry quite pleasing. I won’t wax poetic on the subject, however; I daresay you’ll find it awfully dull.”

“Yet it inspired you enough to create a catalog that is most likely still being used for reference as we speak,” Valory pointed out.

“Perhaps. I hope your father’s naturalist continued on with the research I was doing at the time of my departure. I imagined myself on the verge of a breakthrough, though that might have been egoism more than anything.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I was studying the progression of tide pool communities between spring and neap tides. I suspected that unsuccessful species were dependent upon a finite resource contained within the sea water; during neap tides, the isolation of the pools at higher elevations would deplete the standing water of that resource. The hypothesis was sound, but my initial tests were inconclusive. Unfortunately I left Armathia before I could do any more.”

Valory smiled. “You’ll tell me if you are about to rock the foundations of natural science, won’t you? I would like to be the first to know.”

Arden let out a long sigh. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” Much to his surprise, Valory answered him with a kiss.

“No,” Valory murmured, kissing him again. “Not at all.”

“Then why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I am realizing, not for the first time, that you are far more brilliant than I.”

“Val, please – you are no one’s fool,” Arden protested.

“Why refuse to acknowledge your strengths? Such modesty is unnecessary.”

Arden raised a brow. “Is it? No one likes a braggart.”

“Oh, I’m aware. But there is space between the two extremes,” Valory pointed out. “Take my brother, for example.”

“Your brother is a man who knows his own worth.”

“He may hold his head high, but he’s a study in humility. When I was younger – and admittedly far more arrogant – he used to chastise me for thinking myself better than those around me. It took some time for the lesson to sink in, but I’m glad that he kept on until it did. I think I would have made for insufferable company, otherwise.”

“I think in your case a bit of arrogance might be warranted,” Arden said.

“Yes, _a bit_. My brother’s argument exactly.”

Arden laughed. “The truth comes out: young Prince Valory thought himself the biggest fish in the Gulf of Anaphe.”

“Small wonder my tutors all found me such a difficult charge. I like to think I’ve grown more humble with the years, although I’ve noticed continued reluctance on my father’s part to put me anywhere near the military chain of command.”

“Soon enough you’ll only have to answer to the King,” Arden pointed out.

“To the people, to the King, and to the Gods,” he said, letting out a sigh. “And for the next few weeks, unfortunately, to the council in Armathia. My egotism pales in comparison to the men who sit in the chamber there.”

Arden snorted. “At the very least, Verne and my father must keep them in line.”

“In session, yes. Unfortunately, I’m about to gain one of that supercilious lot as a relation.”

“Duke Edmund? I left Armathia before he arrived at court. Is he really so unpleasant?”

“Edmund is like all politicians: a ‘necessary evil’. He schemes more than a debutante at a masque, but most of it is benign, aimed at furthering his family’s ends.”

“He’s related to Dramor’s old Anaphean royalty, isn’t he? Doesn’t that worry your father?”

“Not particularly; his loyalty to Oceana is well-documented. He took down a network of Dramorian spies when he left Anaphe, and hasn’t been back since. He was the oldest son in a family with Dramorian ancestry. He understands the way things work in that city far better than the rest of us, and as such, his counsel has helped my father manage the disputes that arise on the peninsula.”

“I’d have thought his ancestry would make him more dangerous than that,” Arden admitted.

“He’s a pain,” Valory admitted, “and a political reactionary – as many Anapheans are. Although he can be contrary and frustrating, I wouldn’t call him dangerous. There are others within the court who have me far more worried.”

“Such as?”

“Lord Lester, for one.”

“The emissary to Dramor?”

Valory nodded. “Unless our fathers are already apprised of Indar’s predilection for demon-worship, I suspect that Lester has been leaving information out of his dispatches.”

Arden whistled. “That’s a weighty accusation.”

“Hence why I think Edmund harmless by comparison.”

“Yet still a champion of draconian social mores, if I understood your remarks on his political inclinations.”

“Just so.”

“Does that strain your relationship with Lady Sybina?” Arden asked, congratulating himself on how level his voice sounded.

“I don’t have a relationship with Lady Sybina. I know her only in passing.”

“I’ve heard she’s very lovely,” he added.

“She’s a good enough match, if somewhat young.”

“Enchantment?”

“Minor firestarter, mostly used for parlor tricks and the like.”

“Signature?”

“Hopefully it’ll be better now that Lawrence has seen to my talisman, though I have my doubts. Even if the change were miraculous, I still hesitate to say it would be enough to compensate for the Anaphean ideals that Edmund has beat into her head,” Valory muttered. “I would break the engagement if I didn’t think it could be the catalyst to start a civil war.”

“Perhaps Lady Sybina is made of better mettle than her father,” Arden suggested.

“Perhaps. I hope that under my tutelage, she might strive to rise above her ancestry.”

“With time I’m sure she will become an ally and an asset,” Arden assured him, unable to stop himself from tightening his arms around Valory’s shoulders.

Valory relaxed into him with a sigh. “I suppose that remains to be seen. From what I can tell she’s not a bad sort. Perhaps removing her from her father’s influence and heading to Anaphe will allow her to flourish.”

“It very well might,” Arden murmured. _Goodbye, Val._

“Only time will tell.”

“I’m sorry you’re in this position.”

“You’re hardly the one who put me here,” Valory pointed out. “I suppose it would be easier if I wasn’t the sort of man that I am.”

“One who prefers a soldier to an heiress?”

“Just so.”

“What will you do?” Arden asked before he could stop the words.

“My duty, I suppose – as best as I can. And the rest?” he trailed off, lipping a kiss to the edge of Arden’s collarbone. “Very, very carefully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> A chiton is a kind of marine mollusc related to limpet; they're small with ridged, armored shells.
> 
> When Arden talks about tide pool communities, he's referring to a process we call eutrophication, or -- what happens when you strip one of those little pools of oxygen. He doesn't quite know what's going on, but that he'd take note of such a phenomenon shows the sharpness of his scientific mind.


	15. Chapter 15

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 8; 2421_

All hands broke bread on deck together the day the weather turned. For the first time in two weeks the sun rose over a cloudless horizon with a burst of brilliant color. Its beauty went mostly ignored, however, as all eyes were trained on the glinting golden towers of Armathia. Ill-concealed excitement hummed amongst them; they were expected to reach the harbor before the change of the watch.

Félix stood before the mast with bound hands, pacing the windward side of the deck with a stiff gait. He studied the unfamiliar coastline as he worked the aches out of his legs. He didn’t understand why Ehrin had appealed to the Prince on his behalf, and had been frustrated to find himself unable to ignore the boon that had been granted to him. It was a mighty relief to feel the sun, wind, and spray once again, even if it was the last he’d see of the ocean for many weeks.

Félix let out an inaudible hum of contentment as he stretched. He could feel the Sarian’s eyes boring into his back, but ignored him in favor of the rapidly-approaching city. Although his position in the Belenese navy had brought him to many foreign shores, he had never seen the Oceanic capital with his own eyes. The deep sense of foreboding he had felt over their arrival now seemed at odds with the brightness of the city before him. Armathia was not what he had expected.

In character the city reminded him of Anaphe; the cities had once been called twins for a reason. Like Anaphe, Armathia’s towering walls were whitewashed, offsetting the wrought golden gates that adorned them from the north and south sides. The harbor and its surrounding settlement sprawled far beyond the white walls, peppering the bay with tiny clusters of homes. The city itself was carved into the once-sheer cliff face of the bluffs overlooking the bay, its stepped levels giving Félix the impression that the buildings had grown from the rock itself.

The spires of a great cathedral rose above the center of the highest level of the city. Though Félix despised the idolatry inherent in the intricately carved points, he couldn’t help himself from staring in awe at their craftsmanship. The city that Eramen built was magnificent, but Félix well knew that the ugliest things often came in the most beautiful wrapping.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Ehrin asked, coming to stand next to him. She held two mugs of coffee, one of which was offered to him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Félix reached for the mug, gingerly balancing it between his bound hands. “I do not think I will have a chance to admire the view from my cell,” he countered.

“What do you want me to tell you, ‘look your fill now’? It’s not as though you didn’t bring this upon yourself,” she pointed out.

“Hm.”

“Oh, alright; if that’s how you want to be after all I had to do to get Prince Valory to let you up on deck today. You’re lucky it’s sunny at all, otherwise you’d still be below.”

“I will not be a problem for you any longer.” Félix was surprised to see the brief flicker of a frown pass across Ehrin’s features at his words.

“I suppose not. My father says we’re to reach Armathia in a few hours. I daresay you’ll come to appreciate your stay on _Windjammer_ in hindsight.”

Félix took a sip of his coffee. It was prepared the way he liked best; just one of the many small kindnesses the Captain’s daughter had shown him since his capture. He still didn’t know what to make of it all, though he was beginning to let go of the resentment he felt towards her for complicating his thoughts about the Oceanic people. “Hm.”

Ehrin rolled her eyes. “It wouldn’t kill you to be more grateful, you know. The only reason you’re here at all is because of the Prince. My father was ready to leave you with the Admiral on Kilcoran. The word is that his interrogations tend to leave permanent marks – not to mention the pig slop they pass off for food in Bightton prisons.”

“As far as I am concerned, your Prince Valory can rot. But you are a fool to doubt my appreciation for what you have done.”

Ehrin stared at him slack-jawed for a heartbeat. The thank-you had been backhanded at best, but he had said it aloud. It was clearly more than she had expected. “Well,” she said, both pleased and embarrassed, “you’re welcome.”

“Hm.”

“Alright,” she breathed. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodbye, Félix. It was . . . it was interesting to know you.”

Félix looked up sharply, green-flecked eyes narrowing at her. “Goodbye?”

“I have work to do before we reach Armathia, and after that I suppose you’ll be taken off to the fort,” she said.

“Hm.” He hesitated. “ _May the river run wide before you._ ”

“What does that mean?”

“Goodbye.”

“Right. May the wind be at your back, then.”

Ehrin pressed his forearm quickly before withdrawing, a shadow of a smile on her face. When no more words from Félix were forthcoming, she spun and beat a hasty retreat up the quarterdeck steps towards the helm. Félix watched as she exchanged a few words with the Prince and his second before heading down below. He cocked his head. He hadn’t expected to see the Prince at the helm, yet there he was; stern features relaxed as he chatted amiably with Lord Arden. Félix allowed himself a moment of grudging respect for the Prince; it was not every day that a Captain would trust a head of state to hold course with his ship in a dead-downwind run.

“Alright Belen,” the Sarian said, moving to stand, “that’s your half hour.”

Félix turned, chin raised haughtily. He held out his now-empty mug, a smirk on his lips as the Sarian was forced to play the part of the servant and take it from his hands. Once relieved of the mug he spun precisely on his heel, moving down the windward side of the deck with all of the grace of a lifetime sailor. Before he turned inboard towards the midships companionway, he caught the Prince’s eye at the helm. He favored the man with a contemptuous sneer as Lars pushed him forward, forcing him down the ladder.

At the helm, Valory paused mid-sentence, a grim frown lining his features.

“What is it?” Arden asked, noticing the shift in Valory’s mood.

“I worry on occasion that the Commodore sees all of this as no more than a game.”

“The defiance is a mechanism for survival. Remember what Ehrin told us? He is desperate to get back to his people, but is loath to let us know it.”

“Exacerbated, no doubt, by our current location,” Valory nodded.

“Because we are so close to home and he is not?”

“Just so.”

 _Home_ , Arden thought, lifting his gaze to the city’s golden gates once more. He had visited Armathia in the years since his disappearance, but had never passed the walls into the city proper; he had always deemed it too much of a risk. A storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings raged within him. On the one hand, he felt immense relief at reaching the capital. Here was the end of his journey. He was through with the evasion, the false identities, the running. He finally had a reason and a means to go back to his place of birth. His work could mean something again.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, looking sideways at Valory. The man was staring straight ahead, eyes trained on Armathia’s towers, course never faltering. _If only duty wasn’t pulling us in opposite directions._ He shook his head. It wouldn’t do to think such thoughts – not on what was meant to be a happy occasion.

“How long has it been since you were home?” he asked.

“Two years,” Valory replied.

“You must be happy to return.”

“After a fashion. It will be good to see my family again. I’ve avoided the capital for too long.”

“You’ve been needed elsewhere,” Arden pointed out.

“Yes, and that’s the half-truth I’ve been telling myself as well,” he said. “Armathia’s walls stir something profound within me, yet I also dread much of what lies within its borders.”

“‘Home’ is a double-edged sword,” Arden mused.

“It is, isn’t it – for the both of us. How are you faring?”

“Alright,” he murmured. “I’m alright.” At Valory’s unconvinced look, he added, “I suppose I’m thinking about . . . some of the goodbyes I’m going to have to say in the near future.”

“To _Windjammer_ and her crew,” Valory supplied.

“Yes.” _To you._

“She may yet be commissioned by the navy for the trip to Ithaka,” he pointed out.

“Yes, perhaps, but,” Arden dared another sidelong glance at Valory, “I daresay it won’t be quite the same after this.”

Valory’s lips thinned into a line. “True. Are you ready for that?”

Arden sighed. “I ought to be. In some ways I’ve been waiting twenty years to come home again.”

Valory considered his words. “After we’re cleared with the harbormaster, I plan on heading straight to the upper level. We can’t waste any time in alerting my father of the situation with the witches and the Westernese.”

“Of course.”

“Will you come?”

Arden swallowed. “To speak in front of your father?”

“In front of both our fathers and the rest of the Armathian council. Your testimony is valuable. It would be a great boon to have you there with me.”

“Then I will be there.”

Valory chose his next words with care. “When we are greeted by the harbormaster, he will send for horses.”

“Send for one for me as well, then, if that’s what you are asking.”

“Calling for them has news of my arrival spreading through the city almost immediately. When I reach the gates of the upper level, I am usually greeted by your brother,” Valory said, watching Arden’s reaction.

Arden’s face was blank. “I suppose I have to face him sometime.”

“He will be glad to see you again, I promise you that. He might even express the sentiment aloud. I hope he does. I have a handful of Royals riding on the sort of event that would make your brother emote in public.”

Arden let out a surprised laugh. “You have a bet going? With who?”

“Siath. Who else?” Valory said, favoring Arden with a sharp grin.

“Well then – I suppose it’s on me to put on a good show.”

Valory took a hand from the helm to squeeze Arden’s shoulder. Arden could feel him reaching out with his enchantment, trying to siphon off some of the exhaustion and worry. “It will be alright,” Valory assured him.

 _I wish that were the case_. “I know,” he murmured. He forced himself to relax and tried to guide his thoughts to cheerier subjects. Happily the wind conspired to provide a distraction, shifting as they progressed further in towards the bay. He reached out to grab a spoke of the helm, automatically helping Valory make the course correction. “Turn another few degrees to starboard; the wind is coming around and I wouldn’t want to crash-gybe while everyone is breaking their fast.”

“In full view of the fort, no less,” Valory agreed, adjusting his course in order to keep the wind coming over their stern. “Embarrassing, to be sure.”

“For you, yes,” Arden said, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.

“For me, or for the officer who showed me much of what I know about steering a vessel?” Valory asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, ha. Now come up a few more degrees; the wind is looking dodgy.”

“Couldn’t you do something about that?” Valory jested.

“And then you would never learn, would you?” he teased. “You won’t be so fortunate to always have me as your sailing companion.” Arden winced, realizing what he had said as soon as the words left his mouth.

“I suppose not,” Valory replied, voice flat.

Arden berated himself for his thoughtless words. He hoped he hadn’t sounded quite as bitter as he felt. _Valory is not the sort of man who would find jealousy of Conrad to be an appealing trait_ , he reminded himself. He frowned at the horizon.

A heavy silence fell between them during which both men were lost in melancholy thoughts, yet unaware of how similar the subjects of their reveries were. The uncharacteristic silence lasted for a quarter of an hour, broken only by Callum’s approach. He nodded towards Valory, stepping up to replace him at the helm.

“You’ve still got time on watch, lads, but I’ll take over from here. Go get yourselves cleaned up – I assume you’ll both be wanted up top as soon as we pull in.”

“Not sure how much good that will do. I haven’t a single presentable thing to wear before the court,” Arden remarked, looking down at his stained linen shirt with a sigh.

“We’ll be given some time to clean up before meeting with my father. You are welcome to stop by my rooms and borrow something suitable then,” Valory offered.

“Alright,” Arden said, shuffling towards the quarterdeck steps.

“I expect both of you lads back within the half-hour; we’ll need all hands to sail into our slip,” Callum warned them.

“Aye Captain,” Arden said before dropping down the ladder towards the salon. It was time to make ready for the first in the series of painful goodbyes he would endure before the day was out.

…

Arden let the horse nose at the palm of his hand while he stroked its neck, murmuring snatches of assurances and endearments under his breath. Behind him Imran was exchanging a few words with the Harbormaster while Little and Gabe finished up their goodbyes with _Windjammer_ ’s crew. The boys who held the reigns of their horses had their eyes trained on Prince Valory, who was busy distributing the last of the contents of his pack into his saddle bags.

Arden’s horse snorted against his hand as Valory approached, booted feet clapping on the cobbles. “Calming your horse’s nerves?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

“Mine as well, I imagine. It has been a while,” Arden said, giving the horse’s neck one last stroke before turning. Imran had ended his conversation with the Harbormaster and was already mounting the horse he had been provided. Little and Gabe were striding up the dock, goodbyes finished.

“Surely you remember how to ride?”

Arden grabbed the pommel of the saddle with one hand before swinging up onto the horse’s back. Valory squinted up to regard him from his new vantage point. “I was once a cavalryman, however unsuccessful a one; I’ll manage.”

“Good, then. We’ll be setting off in a moment.”

Arden nodded as Valory turned to exchange some final information with the Harbormaster. He was grateful for Valory’s involvement; it had helped them clear through quarantine faster than he could remember doing in the past. When a cursory inspection of _Windjammer_ ’s hold had yielded no surprises, they were immediately permitted to disembark.

Arden had clasped arms with his crew all around, but didn’t make any attempt at a genuine goodbye; Callum informed him that Valory had settled their commission and given a generous bonus that included a paid dock slip and the option to dry-dock and careen _Windjammer_ ’s hull at no expense.  He was busy making ready to report to the Armathian Admiral on the situation in Kilcoran, but had been very clear that Arden was welcome aboard _Windjammer_ at any time, no matter what happened when news of his return got out. Callum had also told him in no uncertain terms that they wanted to be a part of the effort to retake Elona, and that they would gladly transport Valory and his men anywhere he wished to go. Arden had been relieved by the news: it was, at the very least, one parting he wouldn’t have to endure just yet.

His horse must have felt his nerves, for she began to at the ground. “Hush, hush,” he murmured, patting her neck. The idea of seeing his family again after such a long absence was terrifying, but it was good to know that he always had a place aboard _Windjammer_ if things went south.

“All set?” Valory asked, stepping away from the Harbormaster and taking the reins of his horse from an awestruck stable hand.

“Waiting on you, sir,” Imran drawled, already perched in his saddle.

“Gabe?” Valory queried.

Gabe had the fingers of one hand pressed against his temple. “Armathia is a crowded place, sir. I’ll get used to it in a few hours.”

“Little?”

“Someone’s got an enchantment that’s making my toes tingle,” he muttered, glancing around as if to locate the offending party.

“Arden?”

“Well enough,” Arden shrugged. It wasn’t a lie; the signatures of others were the least of his worries at that moment.

“Imran?”

“ _Still_ not in possession of an enchantment, sir.” Imran rolled his eyes.

Valory swung up onto his mount. Once astride, he chanced another look backwards towards Arden. “Word of our arrival will have already begun to spread. I didn’t reveal anything about you; I figured you would prefer to do so yourself.”

“Thank you,” Arden murmured.

“Now gentlemen, shall we?” Without further ado, Valory started up the street towards the great gates.

They traversed the streets of the outer city at a brisk trot, unmolested and unrecognized. Occasionally one of the shopkeepers of townspeople would call out a greeting, a generic _‘fair weather!’_ or _‘welcome!’_ that they would have extended to any newcomer regardless of rank. At that pace it took a scant few minutes for them to reach the gleaming golden barrier that stood between the city proper and any outsiders.

A small window opened up, dwarfed by the gate’s enormity. A guardsman peered out, eyes sweeping over the bedraggled travelers who waited before him. “State your business,” he drawled.

“You’d best be jumping to attention, man – the Prince has returned!” Little declared, gesturing towards Valory with aplomb.

The guardsman’s eyes snapped back towards Valory, realizing that the worn leather breastplate he had taken for the garb of a common soldier was slightly different than the livery he was accustomed to. The design was wrought in ivory and gold, for one, and none could deny that the crescent-shaped mark of the Regent decorated one shoulder.

“Forgive me my Lord, it has been so long,” he gasped, saluting smartly. “Gents, get these gates open – Prince Valory is home!”

Arden felt as though his stomach was tying itself in knots as the gates swung inward and the guards stepped up to salute Valory as he passed. The road spread out before them, lined on either side by the facades of tall, whitewashed buildings. He swallowed against the rising tide of anticipation and dread that rose within him. It was the first time he had set foot within the gates in years. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the sight of the city proper. He hadn’t known how heady a feeling it would be to cross the threshold once more.

“Welcome home,” Valory said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Thank you,” he whispered, words drowned out by the noise of the bustling city streets.

Valory nodded towards the saluting guards before urging his mount forward once more. Arden nudged his own horse with his heels, falling into place to the Prince’s right. He breathed in and out slowly as the achingly familiar sights and sounds of the city assailed him from every side.

It was midmorning and as such, the streets of Armathia teemed with activity. The lower levels boasted rows upon rows of merchant stalls bedecked in fabric, spices, produce, and all manner of wares. Men and women hurried about their business, popping in and out of decorated storefronts advertising baked goods, fine vestments, or choice cuts of meat. Mouthwatering smells drifted from the doors of inns and eateries into the street, luring patrons in droves. In the thick of it all rode Valory, patiently picking his way uphill through the throngs of his people.

“The cry has already gone out,” Gabe informed them, tapping his temple. “They’re all aflutter with news of the Prince’s return.”

Gabriel’s words proved to be prophetic. As they wound their way up through the levels, buildings on either side began to empty as men, women, and children all crowded together, clamoring for a look at their Prince. Arden observed the scene with wide eyes. Even as a young man he had never witnessed such a joyful welcome.

Prince Valory was clearly a popular man. As soon as they were spied rounding a corner the cry would go up and men and women would stop in the midst of making their purchases to take a knee, beaming and clapping to welcome him home. Children darted forward to touch his boots for luck. Valory endured all of this with patience, holding his horse at a deliberate pace, taking the time to return greetings he could pick out from the din.

The crowd thinned as they crossed through the archway to the fifth level. Although the greetings they received from the wealthier sect were no less exuberant, the streets lacked some of the chaos that the marketplace had provided. The emptier streets allowed them to pick up their pace through the upper levels. By the time they reached the gates of the inner city, Arden estimated that they had been riding for nearly an hour.

A group of nervous-looking young men in the livery of the royal stables stood just outside the gates to the inner city. Upon seeing Valory’s approach they all bowed.

Little dismounted first, handing the reins of his mount to the nearest stable boy. “Well, this is where we part ways. Any last orders, sir?”

“You’ll all be called to give your reports soon enough, never fear. Take a few days to rest outside of that; when I have need of you I’ll have word sent,” Valory said, swinging down from his horse. Arden followed suit.

“Lord Arden, it was a real pleasure,” Little said, bowing respectfully before Arden pulled him forward to clasp arms.

“The pleasure has been mine, Little,” Arden smiled.

“Lord Arden,” Gabriel said as Arden turned to clasp his arm as well.

“Take care, Gabe. I’m sure we’ll be seeing one another soon.”

“We will. I hope to hear news of you long before that, though,” Gabriel smiled. “Try not to worry so much, my Lord; I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

Arden sighed. “Thank you. I’m trying.”

“I agree with Gabe,” Imran said, bowing. “You should not worry. It is needless. Any man with eyes will see your caliber.”

“That means a lot, coming from you,” Arden said, stepping forward to clasp Imran’s arm. “I hope to see you in the ring as well. I’d like to continue my lessons with the twin blades, if you’re up for it.”

“Of course. There is also the matter of our wager. I maintain that I will best you on solid ground.”

“Then I must get to practicing, mustn’t I?” Arden smiled.

“Lord Arden,” Imran said, switching to Dramorian, “ _Take care of Valory for us. Life in the big-city wears-fatigues him immeasurably._ ”

“I will,” Arden promised.

Having bid their farewells, the three soldiers continued on past the gates towards the uppermost entrance to the fort. Arden looked upon the open gates with some trepidation. From where he stood he could see the large square and its carefully tended flowers and trees. On the other side of the square rose the glorious façade of the cathedral. To the right lay the palace, its towers rising high above them. To the left stood the houses of high noble families and dignitaries, most prominent among them the multi-storied House of Stewards. He swallowed hard. _Home_.

Ready to face what waited for them inside, Valory strode forward towards the square. Arden caught up after a few steps, and together they walked towards one of the city’s many sculpted fountains. Just before it stood a tall brown-haired man outfitted in long blue robes of state. Arden sucked in a gulp of air. _Verne_.

As they drew nearer, Arden got a better look at his brother’s features. Verne was older than he remembered, though not terribly so; his Empathetic enchantment had him wearing his years well. Arden didn’t fail to notice, however, how tense and tired his brother looked. He frowned. The years may have been kind to Verne, but it seemed as though the current state of affairs in the Eastern World had not.

Verne had been staring at the sculpted fountain, lips moving almost imperceptibly as he puzzled through whatever problem held his attention. It was an old habit of his, one which Arden found endearing for its familiarity. Verne’s reverie was not broken until they were nearly upon him; his head snapped up as they drew close, grey-green gaze sharp and alert. His stance relaxed at the sight of Valory, lips quirking at the corners. It was the closest he ever came to smiling in public. They clasped arms; Valory thumped him on the back.

“Well met, Lord Verne,” Valory said, allowing Verne to execute the precise bow he favored over such displays of informality and affection.

“It is good to see you again, my Lord,” Verne replied, voice clipped and firm. Only then did he straighten to full height and step back, eyes darting up to rest on the man who had come through the inner city gates at Valory’s side.

“I’ve something of a surprise for you,” Valory said, a smile tugging at his features.

Verne froze, eyes comically wide. He took a halting step forward, hand coming up as though to reach out and ascertain whether or not the man that stood before him was real or apparition. “This had better not be a poorly thought out attempt at humor, my Lord,” he warned.

“Verne,” Arden said, taking a tentative step forward. “Verne, I –”

He was cut off as Verne threw his arms around Arden’s shoulders, their chests colliding with an audible thump. Arden could feel Verne vibrating with suppressed words. “Little brother,” he said, voice deceptively level.

“I’m so sorry,” Arden whispered, shutting his eyes.

Verne stepped back, moving to hold Arden at arm’s length to get a better look at him. “If I were a different man, I might give you a black eye or a sore hide for this. As it stands, I think a firm interrogation will have to suffice.”

Arden felt his lips twitch into a smile. He had missed his brother so severely, but had done his damnedest to put it out of his mind; standing in front of him after so many years only served to heighten his awareness of how difficult the separation had been. “That’s only fair, I suppose.”

“You look well,” Verne remarked, releasing his hold on Arden’s biceps. “My little brother is a grown man now,” he said, a shade of wonder creeping into his voice. “Where in Fángon’s name did you find him, my Lord?”

Arden beat Valory to the answer. “He found me aboard _Windjammer_ , the vessel he commissioned for a tour through the isles.”

“Shipboard? You?” Verne asked.

“Arden is something of an accomplished sailor,” Valory put in.

“Clearly we have much to discuss,” Verne mused. “I hope we will have time to do so.”

Arden did not miss the significance with which Verne had imparted the words. “We will; I am back now – so long as our House will have me.”

“We will have you,” Verne said.

“Father—”

“We will have you.”

“Well,” Arden let out a long breath. “If that’s the case, then I will have ample opportunity to tell you where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing these long years. Just as well, for I long to hear all about the goings on in the palace from your perspective.”

“There is much to tell,” Verne said, lips flattening into a frown.

“Surely not all bad news?”

“In times as dark as these? Of course it is. With that said, we will discuss such matters at length when we call the council together in an hour’s time. That was the most I time I could bargain for as soon as I heard of your arrival, my Lord,” Verne said, turning towards Valory.

“That will be more than adequate.”

“Arden,” Verne said, voice cracking on the name. He shook his head, fighting to regain his composure. “Arden. Your rooms will be reopened presently, of course.”

“My rooms are still . . . ?” Arden trailed off.

“They remain untouched,” Verne said, tone daring Arden to mock him for the hope he had kept alive for more than twenty years.

“Thank you,” Arden murmured, knowing full well that only Verne’s insistence would have kept their father from dismantling his rooms and possessions.

“I will walk you there,” Verne said, clapping his hands. Two pages scurried over to where they stood. “Inform Martha that Lord Arden’s rooms are to be opened and made habitable.” At the look of stunned surprise on both boys’ faces, Verne snapped, “ _Now_.” As the pages hustled to carry out the order, Verne turned back towards Valory. “I have ordered a hot bath drawn for you. Is there anything else that you require, my Lord?”

“None at all. You walk Arden to his rooms; I will see you in the council chamber. As much as I would like to tarry, we have ample opportunity for a social call later.”

“Of course, my Lord; time is of the essence. May we?”

“Yes, Lord Verne, you may depart. You know you need not ask such things, don’t you?”

“My Lord,” Verne bowed, pointedly ignoring Valory’s offer of informality. “Come Arden; there are a few things I would like to discuss with you before we meet in front of our betters.”

“Arden,” Valory said before Miran’s sons could turn away.

“Yes, my Lord?” Arden asked.

Valory frowned at the formal address. He figured it was done for the sake of Verne’s sensibilities, but that knowledge did naught to soothe the ache he felt. “If you need anything,” he said, leveling a significant glance at Arden’s least-stained linen shirt.

“I know where to find you, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord,” Arden nodded, bowing his head before turning to follow his brother towards the Stewards’ house.

Above them, the bells of Armathia’s cathedral began to ring, indicating the beginning of a new hour. Valory stared after their retreating forms, unable to fight a creeping sense of unease. He watched them disappear around a corner before willing his feet to move, forcing himself in the direction of the palace. He hoped that Arden would come to his rooms before the meeting. There were things he wanted to discuss, and the more he thought about them, the more he realized that they wouldn’t keep.

…

Years earlier when Valory had been about to reach his majority, he declared himself well and truly tired of receiving unwanted visitors to his rooms at all hours of the day. Out of spite he asked his father to permit him to take the tower rooms overlooking the bay instead. Figuring that his son had made the request in a fit of pique and would soon grow tired of the stairs, Adrianth relented. Siath, on the other hand, had groaned aloud. He could See himself climbing that long spiral staircase for many, many years to come.

After washing and dressing in his court best, Valory seated himself atop a settee at the window in those same chambers. He regarded the stunning view of the harbor unseeing; all of his thoughts were turned inward where a battle raged between things he should have been concentrating on (tactics, supplies, the name of his father’s newest treasurer) and the things he couldn’t get out of his mind (why did he feel so damn awful? Where was Arden? Arden).

The sinking feeling in his gut was back with a vengeance, making it difficult to breathe. Was Arden cross with him? What was taking him so long? Valory fiddled with the embroidered cuff of his white silk tunic. Perhaps he had borrowed one of Verne’s tunics instead – that would make more sense than climbing the multitude of steps to his tower suite. Valory resolved not to let himself feel slighted if that was the case. When the hour neared, he would head to the council hall and meet Arden there. His brow drew down. He was most definitely not disappointed by that thought.

_I must concentrate on important matters. How many men will we need to retake Ithaka? Will they have spread out across the island, or concentrated their force only in Elona? Should we stop first in Redrock Bay in case they have moved ships up that way? If they haven’t, we will have to take the entire Januzian force at once. That’s not even considering the witches. How might we neutralize them? What’s the best strategy for entering the harbor? Best consult Arden’s opinion on that._

_Arden. How is he faring? Perhaps we might visit that tavern on the fourth level with the green door after council; Illen knows we’ll both be needing a drink. That is unfair of me, though. He’ll want to spend time with his brother. Perhaps he’ll want company later. We could take a nightcap in one of the courtyards before he turns in for the night._

Valory spared a glance back towards the large bed in the middle of the room. _It will be strange, having so much space to myself after growing accustomed to Arden’s presence._ He swallowed against the lump that formed in his throat at the thought.

_I am going to miss him terribly._

_What if I don’t want to?_

_Do I have another choice?_

_My duty—_

_But no. No. There is_ always _another choice, even if it is an unwise one._

Conrad’s words during their last discussion in Anaphe returned to haunt him. _‘Surely you are not so unwise as to take a lover; I cannot imagine you would set yourself up for heartbreak in such a way.’_ Valory fought the urge to laugh. _It seems as though I am, no matter what I may have thought at the time. Unwise it may be, but what’s my other alternative – letting my duty take him from me and pretending he has never been more than a particular friend?_

_Would Arden agree with his brother? He is a sailor at heart._

_If I say nothing, I’ll never know._

_We should have discussed this days ago._

A knock at the door had Valory springing up off of the settee, startled out of his reverie. “Enter,” he called, moving from his bedchamber to the center of his study in a few long strides.

Arden stepped into the room before shutting the door behind him. He was washed and groomed, hair hanging wet to the tops of his shoulders. Though he wore a pair of fine silk trousers cut in the same style as Valory’s – doubtlessly Verne’s – his shirt was the same common sailor’s garb he had donned that morning.

“All’s well?” Valory asked.

“Yes. It took some time for Verne to find a pair of trousers in an appropriate cut and color. Then there were the steps, of course.” Arden had stopped in the center of the room as well, several paces away from him. Even from that distance, Valory could see the sheen of sweat on his brow from the climb.

“They are a deterrent to unwanted visitors, though I’m afraid they also inconvenience wanted visitors as a result,” he said, a fond smile capturing his features. Arden cut a rather ridiculous picture, wet hair dripping onto his mismatched clothing.

“What is it?” he asked, touching his hair self-consciously.

Valory’s smile grew into one of the rare wide ones that were reserved for Arden’s company. “You look a bit like an otter.”

“I’m sure my father will be overjoyed; I left as a deserter and returned as a river creature,” Arden deadpanned.

 _Perhaps Arden doesn’t want aught to do with me anymore now that our time on_ Windjammer _is through_.

“Arden,” he murmured, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Arden merely shook his head, turning away to stare out the window. Valory flinched; the dismissal hurt.

The slow, insidious grief that had been welling up in his breast at odd intervals now threatened to overwhelm him – a terrible feeling. It was a unique sort of pain, yet familiar in its intensity. _Heartbreak_ , he remembered, _just as Conrad warned me_. It had been a long time since he had last felt it. _Because I am a coward_ , he thought. _I have long avoided it by avoiding all matters of the heart – just as I claimed when Conrad asked. Easy. Uncomplicated. Dutiful. But is it any way to live?_

_Could it be different?_

“So here we are,” Arden finally said, breaking the silence. A look of utter misery was etched into his expression. “I might have predicted that none of my old clothing would fit. That, and most of it has been chewed by moths and Gods-know what other creatures. Verne says he’s already got his seamstress working on a new set, but—” he trailed off, realizing that he was rambling.

“He’s pleased to see you.”

“Yes.”

Valory hated the way that their dialogue felt strained, stilted, awkward. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so uncomfortable in Arden’s presence. It was all wrong.

“I have a tunic you might borrow,” he offered, gesturing towards the chair where it was draped.

“Alright.”

“It’s a neutral color, green. It’ll suit you.”

Arden let out a soft sigh, screwing his eyes shut. “It is kind of you to consider so small a thing.”

“Kind? Arden—”

“Perhaps it would be best not to draw this out. I know you have your duty, as I have mine. I hope to keep your friendship, but I can see that this is uncomfortable for you.”

This was the turning point, he realized: right here. Arden standing in his sitting room, stock still, habitual ease in Valory’s presence forgotten. This was the point where he should end it, make a new routine, redefine their relationship in a way that would be easier, more practical, less likely to end in heartbroken defeat. Valory knew the script well: he had said the words, had the words said to him so many times over the years. _We cannot do this here. We cannot do this anymore. We have our duty to Oceana to think of._ It was what he should do – so why wouldn’t the words come?

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He knew with a desperate clarity that he didn’t _want_ to let go of Arden. He hadn’t had such an impulse since he was a young man, full of optimism, not yet accustomed to the harsh realities of the world and his position in it. He was aware that trying to stick it out was idealistic at best, yet the idea of holding this man at arm’s length seemed infinitely worse. After all, what was more repugnant than the idea of lying on his death bed and examining all of his regrets, only to have to name Arden as one of them? Could he look himself in the eye tomorrow and every day thereafter knowing that he was missing out on a chance – even a slim chance – simply because he was too jaded, afraid, cynical – to try?

“Stop,” Valory said as Arden turned for the door, the command heavy in his voice. “Stop,” he repeated, voice soft. “This is difficult, yes, but don’t—”

“I understand, Val. I knew getting into this what it would mean when we returned to Armathia.”

“Did you? Then you were a sight more responsible than I. I’m afraid I haven’t been doing very much thinking.”

Arden cringed. “You need not worry now. This is one thing I have adequate frame of reference for.”

“Then perhaps you might help me navigate. You have a better way with words than I.”

“You’re a diplomat as well, my Lord, however much you wish that weren’t the case. Either way, you know my House; you do not need to use soft words on my account,” Arden scoffed.

Valory frowned. “Something tells me that we are speaking at cross purposes.”

“Are we? You are trying to inform me that this thing between us cannot continue in Armathia, are you not?” Arden asked, voice flat.

Valory winced. It hit very close to the mark, yet for all he had been contemplating such an action a few minutes earlier, he knew he never could have gone through with it. Somehow, somewhere in their travels, Arden had come to mean much more to him than he had anticipated. “Is that what you thought?” he asked.

“It wasn’t the most difficult deduction. As I said, we are no longer aboard the _Windjammer_. Our duties in Armathia are not so permissive. I understand that.”

“But you are not happy about it.”

Arden let out a mirthless laugh. “No, I am not. Think me soft for it, if you like, but I would bargain for more time if I could.”

“That is what I wanted to address with you before we entered the council chamber.”

“You need not worry about my discretion,” Arden assured him.

“Discretion has been the furthest thing from my mind these past few weeks, unwise as that may be. You could shout it from the tower for all I care – just cease staring at me as though I have wronged you. What did I say to slight you so?”

Arden went quiet, confusion evident in his stance. Valory saw the thoughts turning in his mind. “How many languages do we speak in common?” he asked after several beats of silence.

Valory struggled to follow the non sequitur. “Three? Four? I don’t know, why?”

“I’m starting to think that this isn’t one of them. Ironic, considering.” He paused. “I have something that I must admit to you, if you’d deign to attempt to follow along in the language I’ve taken to using in my own head for this thing between us.”

“Alright,” Valory said.

Arden took a deep breath. “The night before Illen’s Arm, I offered comfort with every intention of being with you once and then not again. I am not to be your Steward, and besides: you are a promised man. I knew full well that Armathia would herald a goodbye of sorts: an end to the carefree nature of life aboard _Windjammer_. I _knew_ that, but I suppose there remained some part of me that thought the truth too bitter a draught to swallow. I find myself wishing that there was more time – an absurdity, really, since I have had twenty years away from Armathia to do as I pleased. I wish . . .” he swallowed. “I wish that, all those long years ago when we used to come across one another in the library, I’d had the courage to say hello to you, to dare to share some of my thoughts with another. Especially with you, especially my thoughts about you. _‘Hello Val, you brilliant, fascinating, admirable man._ ’ If only—”

“Arden—”

“Let me finish or I will never get this out. Look, I know that hindsight can be torturous and that we were both different men then, but I might’ve . . . we might’ve . . .” he sighed, scrubbing his hands down the front of his face. “We might’ve had two decades in place of two months.” At Valory’s answering silence, he began to backpedal. “So you see, that is what I have been thinking to myself in secret: that I wish we had more time. That I wish we were saying hello rather than goodbye. I hope you do not think less of me for allowing myself such a flight of fancy.”

Valory reached up, touching the tips of his fingers feather-light to Arden’s cheekbone. “You think in terms of hello, of goodbye, of time . . .” he trailed off. “I admitted before that I have been irresponsible these past weeks. I have enjoyed the growth of this thing between us immensely, enough so that I had tried not to examine it too closely, lest it all evaporate before my eyes. It was wrong of me. I see my inattentiveness has caused you distress.”

“No, no. Throughout all of this you have been very kind. I appreciate that. This is as it was meant to be. I am content,” he said, voice tight. “As are you, I am sure.”

“Content? Am I? Then why do I feel as though I am drowning?” Valory asked, a bitter edge to his voice.

“Val?”

“I have felt thus ever since we spoke earlier this morning, and you pointed out that we will not be sailing companions forever. It struck me how thoughtless I have been by keeping my own counsel. I don’t want to do without you, either, nor do I wish to relegate this thing between us to the confines of strained friendship.”

Arden’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Your duty—”

“I’m tired of talk of duty. I have built my entire life around duty – to my family, to my nation, to my people. I am not a selfish man, Arden, but after years of following the script that others have set out for me, I have found something that I well and truly want. Now that I have, I’ve realized that I’m willing to go to great lengths to keep it.”

“As would I,” Arden breathed. “But . . . can you? Can we?”

Valory sighed. “It will be no simple thing. I don’t know. I _do_ know that I will ever regret giving in without making an attempt.”

“If I had known you thought this . . .” Arden trailed off, voice rough. “Gods, I am an idiot. An _idiot_. All that wasted time admiring you from afar when all it would have taken was a simple ‘hello’.”

“Your language,” Valory murmured with a small, fond smile. “You say you wish we might have had more time. I wish for more time as well, though I think I’d rather have it on this end and avoid the business of goodbye altogether.”

“I should not argue this with you, not when you’re telling me what I want to hear, but I hope you’ve considered the risk. This could be ripped out from under us at any moment.”

“Risk it may be, but I will not turn tail like a coward,” Valory insisted. “So hello it is instead. Is that not what you wish you had said in lieu of the flowery prose we both despise? Well. I will not have the same regret.” He brought his other hand up, cupping Arden’s face between them. “Hello, Arden. I, too, wish we had said it years ago – of course I do – but I refuse to believe that we are out of time. I will not give up on this one thing I can choose for myself, this one good thing. Arden—” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “hello.”

“Hello,” Arden echoed. A smile curved his lips. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Good, because I have made my choice. This thing we have found is too precious.”

“Yet I fear that you will find the price for such a precious thing to be too dear.” Their conversation had drawn them together like two magnets; they stood close enough that they were nearly sharing breath.

“I will pay it. Gladly. With things as they are however . . . it might cost you more than me,” Valory pointed out. “I may be a Prince, but I am never your commander in this. You can still walk away if I am asking too much of you. I will understand.”

“I can’t fathom pretending as though this thing never happened between us. Nor would I want to.”

Valory let out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. “Are you still saying ‘hello’ to me then, in this riddle we are speaking?” he asked, a genuine smile lighting up his features.

“Yes, I suppose I am. Should we count this as yet another language we have in common?” Arden teased.

“I imagine any who hears us talk will think we are speaking in tongues.”

“Oh? But I’ve always thought you quite good at speaking in tongues,” Arden said with an impish grin.

Valory groaned, rolling his eyes. “Your wordplay is abhorrent. Come here.”

Arden smiled into the kiss, near giddy with the unexpected turn of events. “I hadn’t thought,” he admitted, pressing another kiss to the corner of Valory’s mouth, “that I’d ever get,” another kiss, “to do this,” kiss, “again.”

“You had me a bit worried, yourself.”

“Before I started speaking in tongues, you mean?”

“Just so. Now let’s get you in that tunic – I’m afraid we’re running too short on time for anything else involving a tongue.”

“And whose fault is that? I’m not the one who lives in a bloody tower,” Arden groused as Valory reached up to neaten his still-damp hair, carding his fingers through it a few more times than was strictly necessary. “Call me an otter again and so help me—”

Valory snorted. “Point taken; though after taking a brush to my own, I think I would have found that to be a favorable comparison.”

“That bad?” Arden asked, dropping his belt and stripping his shirt over his head. Bare-chested, he examined the green silk tunic draped over the desk chair.

“Almost broke off the handle.”

Arden chuckled, holding the tunic up to his chest. “The price of wearing it long.”

“Perhaps I’ll have it cut.”

“Don’t,” Arden said quickly.

Valory raised a brow, but didn’t comment. “The tunic looks to be your size.”

“Your family won’t recognize it?” he asked.

“Even I didn’t, and it’s presumably mine.”

“No telltale embroidery or buttons?” Arden continued warily, turning to study his reflection in the window.

“Not a one, pity.”

“Pity?”

“I like seeing you in things that are mine,” Valory said, coming up behind Arden and circling his arms around Arden’s waist.

“Do you, my Lord?” Arden asked, voice dropping into its lowest register.

Valory made a noise of displeasure at the formal address. “Arden, you know I dislike the title.”

“Ah, but I like calling you mine.” Arden felt a shiver go through Valory’s frame at his words.

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” he asked, lips tracing the edge of the fresh bandage on Arden’s neck.

“I’m afraid so.”

Valory’s hand slid into his hair, cupping the back of his head and pulling him into a kiss so heated it nearly made his knees buckle. Arden heard the message implicit in every movement of Valory’s lips, teeth, tongue – _if I belong to you, you belong to me as well_.

“Gods,” Valory said, breaking the kiss and moving back a step. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling a few strands out of the once-neat queue. “Put on that tunic or we’ll never get out of here.”

“My Lord,” Arden smiled, the very picture of mischief.

Valory groaned, spinning on his heel. “I’ll be waiting outside, then.”

The welcome sound of Arden’s laughter followed him out.

…

Much to Valory’s relief, they reached the council chamber just as the last of the solicitors exited. The man stomped through the double doors with a mighty scowl on his face; he had just begun to turn the force of his glare upon them when he realized who he was looking at. He bowed his head, murmuring a formal greeting to Valory while sneaking a curious glance towards Arden out of the corner of his eye.

“The council is ready to see you, my Lords,” one of the guardsmen stated.

“Excellent. Announce us,” Valory said, stepping to stand next to Arden in the doorway. Under his breath, he murmured, “Breathe.” The solicitor scurried away down the hall.

“Trying,” Arden replied, fighting hard against the urge to give in to his nerves. He never would have thought that his return to Armathia would involve such a dramatic entrance.

From where they stood they had an unrestricted view of the dais at the end of the hall where the King and Stewards sat. Running the length of the hall on either side of the dais were rows of seats filled by councilors and important members of the nobility. Petitioners were brought forward to kneel – or stand, in their case – before the King in the center of the room.

“Your father sees you,” Valory whispered.

“I know.”

“Did Verne say anything to him?”

“I asked him to; I figured it was for the best.”

“He’s not fond of surprises,” Valory agreed. “Nevertheless he seems a bit off kilter. If I didn’t know better I’d say he looked relieved.”

“Right,” Arden muttered.

“You’re still his son.”

“He wished me dead.”

“I rather think he regretted those words soon after voicing them.”

Arden grunted by way of reply.

Valory continued his perusal of the council hall. His brow furrowed as he took in the unexpected figure sitting in his father’s chair. “My mother is here.”

“You think your father has taken ill again?”

“It would seem that way.”

Their speculation was curtailed by the rap of the guardsman’s staff against the stone floor. “Prince Valory bar Adrianth and Lord Arden bar Miran have arrived to appear before the council.”

The room let out a collective gasp at the pronouncement of Arden’s title, whispers beginning as soon as they stepped into the room. They heard a few snatches of conversation – _‘Did Miran know?’_ and _‘Have they been hiding him?’_ and _‘. . . wouldn’t trust that sort of thing’ –_ as they passed rows of councilors on either side. They strode towards the dais in step as though they had been called in front of the council together a hundred times before.

By the time they reached the center of the room, Arden felt a prickle running down the back of his neck. At first he wondered whether or not it had something to do with the power of the Queen’s enchantment, which felt startlingly different now that his own had reached full maturity. After a few moments, however, he realized that the source of his discomfort was far more mundane; every single occupant of the room was staring at him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Welcome home, Valory,” the Queen said as they approached the dais, her voice sure and clear. She seemed at ease in the King’s seat, long silken skirts arranged around her ankles. Her hair was braided and pinned up high atop her head in an elegant style. She was darker than her sons – a product of her Midland heritage – but Arden could see reflections of Valory in the set of her brow, the bridge of her nose, and the shadow of a smile that lurked in the corner of her lips.

“My Lady,” Valory said, bowing. Arden swept down onto one knee at his side.

“Son,” she corrected, something fond and playful in her voice. “It does my heart well to see you in good health. Your correspondence has been infrequent this past season.”

“I was caught up with the situation in the isles,” Valory admitted.

“What dispatches we did receive failed to make mention of your good news,” she added, shrewd gaze sliding over to Arden. “Lord Arden, it is a most welcome surprise to have you back in Armathia.”

“It is an honor to be back, my Lady,” he murmured, bowing his head further. Queen Persephone’s gaze was almost as penetrating as Master Lawrence’s; small wonder she appeared to be but a fraction of her nearly ninety years.

“Son of Miran, you need not prostrate yourself so. Rise.”

Arden stood once more, meeting the Queen’s eyes. “As you wish, my Lady.”

“I must admit, when your brother informed us that you had arrived at the gate with my son I thought he had finally located his misplaced sense of humor,” she said.

“I would never jest about such a matter, my Lady,” Verne protested.

Persephone sighed. “That much is rather evident, Lord Verne. I am made to understand, however, that the absence has been explained and deemed appropriate, is that right?”

“It is not for me to judge, my Lady,” Arden demurred.

“Who might have given that impression?” Lord Miran asked, his sharp tones cutting into the exchange like the crack of a whip. His mouth was pressed into a firm line, grey hair pulled back tight enough to lend a severe set to his brow. Any gentleness of expression that might have lined his features when he first caught sight of Arden was now gone.

“I did,” Valory said, “though my reasons for doing so will become obvious once the story of my trip through the isles is told. The news I bring is urgent; I would hate for it to have to keep for any longer than necessary. Where are my father and brother?”

An unhappy look played across the Queen’s features before she regained her calm neutrality. Neither Arden nor Valory missed it. “Your audience will be with us, for now. We have much to discuss, as you pointed out. You may begin.”

Valory frowned, regarding the Queen and High Steward for a long moment. When it became clear that no more information was forthcoming, he began his report. As he spoke, he began his habit of pacing to and fro at the front of the room.

“As you know, my men and I were sent to the Borderlands to assess the situation there. During our travels we came upon a southern town that had been razed to the ground.”

“Lannoch – you wrote of it in one of your final dispatches,” Verne supplied, shuffling through a few papers that sat upon a small table at his side.

“Yes. I will spare you the details, since you are familiar with them. Suffice to say the state of the town gave us pause. We made for Anaphe to alert Conrad of the news. He greeted us with ill tidings of his own regarding the proliferation of creatures and unknown vessels in his waters. I decided to assess the situation in the isles myself; my orders were to guard our border, and to the border we went. We commissioned a mercenary crew for the voyage.”

“Why not take a navy vessel, my Lord?” Miran asked.

“I am not a navy man myself; I failed to see the advantage in spending the entirety of the voyage butting heads with an enlisted Captain.”

“And the name of the vessel you commissioned?” Miran continued, shuffling through several dispatches stamped with Conrad’s seal.

“ _Windjammer_ , a schooner under the command of Kilcoranian Captain Callum bar Samuel.”

“Officers?”

“One very surprised Arden bar Miran,” Valory said. The whispers began again in earnest. “We set out for the isles that day,” he continued, voice firm enough that the whispers immediately ceased. “We encountered one of the creatures on the way to Lyre.”

“What sort was it?” Verne asked, quill raised expectantly as he jotted down notes. The question of Arden’s appearance on _Windjammer_ was temporarily put aside.

Valory ceased his pacing. “I will defer to Lord Arden’s expertise on that,” he demurred.

Arden nearly winced as his father’s cold gaze drilled into him. Lawrence had been right; Miran hadn’t borne the shock of his return well, and was taking it out on the handiest victim. He took a steadying breath, forcing thoughts of his father from his mind and concentrating on the memory of the night of the squall. “It was a squid,” he said, “the giant-type. From its size and markings I would say it was not yet an adult, though still large enough to founder a ship. Mottled coat, color shifting, abrasive tentacles, cold ink,” he rattled off, standing stock still, gaze focused on the middle distance between Valory and the dais. “Like all creatures of the deep, it shrunk from fire and its eye was sensitive to perforation.”

“Hunting?” Miran demanded.

“Doubtlessly.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It came upon us during a squall; that is typical opportunistic behavior for its species.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Arden said firmly, meeting his father’s gaze head-on. Several heartbeats passed before the tense silence was broken.

“Little else came to pass before we reached Lyre,” Valory continued, beginning his slow circuit before the dais once more. “The news we gathered there was mostly hearsay, as well. We set out for Kythria after only a short stay in Old Town. Halfway there, we encountered one of the hostile vessels. It was a three-masted Westernese schooner called the _Madesta_ , captained by a Belenese Commodore.”

“You were victorious, I presume,” the Queen said.

“We were, and against a much larger vessel. The crew of the _Windjammer_ deserves a commendation for that action – particularly Lord Arden. We would be fortunate to have him as a Captain, if he would accept a commission.”

Miran peered down his nose at his son, who shifted uncomfortably under the disdainful scrutiny. “A Captain, my Lord? On what merit?”

Valory’s feet stilled. “On his own,” he said, ignoring the elbow Arden sent to his ribs.

“Far be it from me to question your judgment, my Lord,” Miran said, the tone of his voice speaking the volumes that his polite words did not convey.

“I recommend you don’t, Lord Miran, for it seems that your own judgment in this matter is suspect. Your son nearly took an arrow in my stead during that conflict.” The whispers began again at this. “The prevailing doubts regarding his character are baseless at best. If I may continue with my report?”

Miran, chastised, nodded. “Of course, my Lord. At your leisure.” He did not, however, drop his gaze.

“We managed to capture the Belenese Commodore, one Félix son of Laszlo. He is being transported to the fort as I speak. His interrogation yielded little information, though we were able to determine the date and location of their planned attack: Illen’s Arm, the fifteenth of Ranár. There were ten other vessels in his fleet. Knowing that we could not intercept them alone, we made for Kalma and drew out Admiral Edgar and the Kythrian fleet.”

“How many ships?” Verne asked, looking up from his notes.

“Four including _Windjammer_.”

“Your presence here indicates that you were successful against the Westernese fleet. How can so few have done so much?” the Queen asked.

“A brilliant – if daring – plan masterminded by Lord Arden had us creep down the Iron Shore. The location allowed us to alert the fort at Illen’s Arm of the impending attack a night in advance. By similar means, they were able to contact Bightton for aid.”

“I was unaware that you had experience in naval warfare, brother,” Verne said.

“I have been at sea for many years. I suppose I acquired a head for it,” Arden demurred.

“Lord Arden is a rather enviable tactician,” Valory affirmed.

“You must have decimated the Westernese fleet.”

“We failed to account for a variable: the Westernese had an ally. Midway through the battle we were set upon by sea-witches.”

“Surely you do not count witches as the ally of any race of men,” Miran frowned. “It is unheard of.”

“In our time, perhaps; but all of the evidence we have gathered points to some sort of alliance between the witches and the Westernese. This was not the work of a pack of witches. There were scores upon scores of them, and they did not lay a hand upon any of our Westernese adversaries.”

“In the heat of battle, my Lord—” Miran began.

“No,” Valory interrupted. “This is not a tentative conclusion. Arden?”

Arden nodded. He stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, as he rattled off the facts. “They attacked during daylight – nearly unheard of. They crawled upon our decks to tackle the living when they could have fed off of the dead and injured that had fallen overboard. Not a single Westernese body was recovered with injuries done by witches.”

“A great hunt, then,” a councilmember suggested. “We hardly know their ways.”

“We know enough,” Arden countered. “We know, for example, that they tend to be larger than a man, but slow-moving across land because of their tails. We know that they cannot survive for long outside the water. We know that they possess mind-magic, the gift given by Ranael before their betrayal during the Banishment. We know that their King does not hunt topside, ever. In our lifetimes, he has only been seen topside twice.”

“Once,” Miran corrected.

“Twice,” Arden reaffirmed. “The Sea-Witch King boarded _Windjammer_ himself. The creature came straight for Prince Valory– no accident. It recognized him.”

A voice from the council rang out, “Preposterous!”

Valory stiffened beside him. Arden grit his teeth. “It recognized the man who bears his mark.”

Valory looked at Arden, observing his tense frame. “The scar I bear,” he clarified. “Many of you may not remember my first diplomatic mission to Halen, catastrophic failure that it was. I encountered the Sea-Witch King then. When the creature appeared at Illen’s Arm, we knew one another upon sight. I am sure of it.”

“He came for you,” Persephone said, worry etched into her brow.

“We think so. Now two of us bear his mark; he went after Lord Arden first.”

“Is that what those bandages are, brother?” Verne asked.

“The Witch King bears a crown of tentacles, as my luck would have it,” Arden said, reaching up to trace the edge of the bandages as he spoke. “The Bightton fleet arrived just in the nick, distracting the creature well enough for Prince Valory to sever the appendage. We attempted to bring it down in the scuffle, but he escaped over the side.”

“The wounding of the Sea-Witch King turned the tide of battle. Though the witches still fought, they did not do so with the same vigor. Once it became apparent that we would overpower the Westernese, they disappeared back into the deep and we were able to subdue the enemy threat,” Valory continued. “When we began interrogating the enemy officers that evening, however, we realized that the influence of the witches went far deeper than we had anticipated. The Westernese answered only the most basic of questions before falling silent, at which point my Empath could hear the clicking tongue of the witches reverberating in their thoughts.”

“You think that the witches were using their mind-magic upon waking men, my Lord?” Miran asked.

“Master Lawrence thought it possible, so long as the men granted the witches access to their thoughts.”

“Did you glean any useful information before they fell into silence?” Miran pressed.

“I have drawn up a report with all relevant information, but Lord Arden might be able to tell you more from memory than I,” Valory admitted. “He was there for a number of the interrogations, and composed much of the report himself.”

Valory – and indeed, the whole council – watched in awe as Arden nodded curtly before falling still, reciting the relevant section of the report from memory. Valory noted that he was not the only one impressed with Arden’s ability for recitation; his mother’s eyebrows crept further towards her hairline the longer Arden spoke.

Arden ended with the commentary on the promise made between the Commodore and the Lord of the desert. Once finished, he turned towards Valory and inclined his head. “My Lord.”

“Thank you Lord Arden; that was very thorough,” Valory said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Do you suppose that the officer’s words implicate Dramor in this as well, my Lord?” Verne asked.

“Dramor is involved somehow, but we have found it difficult to reconcile the appearance of witches with a scheme of the desert-dwellers,” Valory admitted.

“Such schemes were made in secret if they were made at all,” another councilor spoke up.

“Lord Lester,” Valory frowned. “I hadn’t expected to see you in Armathia.”

“Our desert border has been pressed harder still since you left Anaphe,” Persephone said. “We recalled our diplomats and severed ties with Dramor some weeks past.”

“Unwelcome news,” Valory said.

“As is yours,” Verne replied.

“As I said, my Lord,” Lester repeated, “for all of the politicking going on in Indar while I remained at my post, I heard no mention of the Western states beyond ordinary matters of tithes and tribute.”

Miran cast his eyes up to the lofted ceiling as though praying to Illen for patience. “Do you suppose they would have had you give us warning, Lester?”

“The real question is, would he have passed such a warning onto us?” another councilor muttered.

Valory caught Arden’s raised brow and gave a curt nod; he was not alone in suspecting their Dramorian emissary of having ulterior motives. He had every intention of raising the issue of Lester’s omissions, but wished to speak with his mother and brother on the matter first. Now was not the time.

“Gentlemen,” Persephone interjected, leveling each of the men with measured look, “let’s not devolve into a game of disparaging reputations; we’ve enough enemies at our borders without making enemies of one another.”

“That’s truer than you know, mother,” Valory said. “While we were waiting in Bightton for repairs to be done to _Windjammer_ ’s rig, Master Lawrence’s resident Empath received a communication from Ithaka. Two days after the attack on Illen’s Arm, Elona was taken by the Januzian fleet. They were aided by sea-witches.”

The room fell silent. Persephone’s jaw clenched. Miran’s fists tightened on the armrests of his chair. Verne nearly snapped his quill in half. “Elona has fallen? You are certain, my Lord?”

“I am certain.”

“Januz and Belen are coordinating their efforts?” an incredulous voice came from the council.

“No; the Belenese had no prior knowledge of an attack upon Elona, though they all assumed that something of the sort might take place,” Valory shook his head.

“Then they are liars,” the councilmember said, standing. His black hair was pulled back into a tight queue, accentuating the sharpness of his features. “The Westernese are a wily lot, my Lord; it would not be wise to trust a word that comes from their mouths.

“Duke Edmund,” Valory said, “well met. I assume you speak from experience?” He felt Arden stiffen next to him at the sight of Sybina’s father.

“My Lord, the Westernese are a filthy, querulous bunch,” Edmund affirmed.

“Querulous – yes. That is why I believe that Belen and Januz didn’t know the details of one another’s plans. They have never stooped to sharing information before, and the Commodore’s words on the subject support that,” Arden said.

“Evidence says otherwise,” Edmund replied.

“This attack was coordinated by another party. The Westernese are pawns; a means to an end,” Arden insisted.

“Then by your estimation, who is the mastermind behind these attacks?” Miran asked, an edge to his voice.

“That we don’t know,” Arden admitted, dropping his eyes.

“Ah,” Miran said, arching a brow. “Then how, pray tell, did you come to such a conclusion?”

Valory interrupted, “We strapped the Commodore to the board. He might not be telling us all he knows, but what he has told us is no less than the truth. He did not have anything to do with the attack on Ithaka.”

“Enough of this squabbling,” the Queen said, leveling a significant glare at all parties involved. “What do we think the purpose of these attacks was? Why Kilcoran and Ithaka?”

“Strategic location,” Verne volunteered.

“No doubt,” Miran concurred.

“For what?” the Queen pressed.

“The isolation of Armathia from its major sources of trade and military support,” Arden completed. He didn’t fail to notice the brief flicker of pleased surprise that crossed Verne’s features at his statement. Miran’s face remained inscrutable.

“Lord Arden and I believe that our adversaries will overlook Lyre and Kythria in favor of Anaphe. We are confident that Belen and Januz have depleted their naval resources; as such, the attack will most likely come over the border,” Valory said. “We hope that we have bought time for Lord Conrad by preventing the attack at Illen’s Arm. We can buy him more by taking back Ithaka.”

A terrible, uncomfortable silence fell after Valory’s words. Arden and Valory exchanged quick, worried glances before returning their attention to the dais where the Queen had gone rigid in her seat.

“Have we erred in our assumptions?” he asked, brow raised.

Verne looked away. A councilmember coughed. Duke Edmund, still standing, appeared uncharacteristically discomfited.

Miran broke the silence. “Conrad is dead.”

“Dead?” Valory bit out.

“How?” Arden asked, voice choked with grief.

“He was poisoned just after you left Anaphe, my Lord. You must have moved ahead of the news in the following weeks,” Verne said, voice quiet.

“Who did it? Dramor? Belen?” Valory asked. He could feel the tremor in Arden’s frame and balled his hands into fists to stay them; it would be folly to give comfort in so public a place.

“We don’t know,” Miran snapped. “The government there is in disarray. An investigation is ongoing, but it is hampered by the instability of the region and the questionable loyalty of many prominent subjects.”

“Then who is viceroy?”

“Lady Fiona has stepped up to fill her father’s position until a more suitable replacement is sent,” the Queen said. “She has shown extraordinary bravery in the face of her father’s untimely death; her loyalty to the crown is admirable and unquestionable.”

“If we suspect that this was the work of a disloyal subject, she is putting herself in grave danger,” Valory noted.

“She knows it,” Persephone said. “She may be untried, but there is great strength in her.”

“Duke Edmund, what have you to say about this?” Valory asked, turning to the father of his intended. “Why have you not been sent to Anaphe to aid Lady Fiona?”

“Because once this mess in Ithaka is sorted out, you are to be sent in his stead, my Lord,” Miran said.

“That is the case, my Lord,” Edmund agreed.

“Of course,” Valory murmured, shutting his eyes for a brief moment. _Anaphe_.

Miran cleared his throat. “That brings me to the most important matter we had hoped to resolve once we heard of your arrival, my Lord. As you know, Conrad was meant to be your Steward. His death,” Miran’s voice faltered, “his death has left you bereft of your right hand. You must choose another as soon as possible.”

“I see,” Valory said. The implications of Miran’s words hit him all at once. _Conrad is dead. I am in need of a Steward. Arden is Miran’s youngest son._ Beside him, Arden stood stock-still, shock written across his features.

“If I may, my Lord, some members of the council have suggestions regarding the selection of a new Steward,” Miran continued.

“Suggestions?” Valory repeated. _Why in the world would they be making suggestions when I am standing next to Conrad’s successor?_

“In the event that a Steward must be chosen from outside my House, it is traditional that he be selected from the existing Armathian council,” Miran reminded him.

“Pardon?” Valory asked, furrowing his brow.

“We have discussed this matter at length over the past several weeks, and have a number of suitable candidates for your evaluation,” Miran continued.

“My Lord,” Edmund interrupted, “I would like to humbly put myself forth as a candidate for Stewardship. Considering my history in Anaphe, I am the most logical choice.”

Valory was stunned by the turn of events. He glanced over at Arden. _Why aren’t you saying anything? This is your birthright – step forward and claim it!_ Arden remained silent, wide eyes trained on his father.

“What do you have to say on the matter of Duke Edmund’s proposal, Lord Miran?” Valory asked, finding his voice once more.

Miran let out a long sigh, sparing a steely glance for Edmund. “You are aware, my Lord, that Duke Edmund and I rarely see eye to eye. I find, however, that I cannot argue with his logic on this occasion; his ancestral ties to Anaphe make him an ideal candidate for Stewardship. His presence could help stabilize the region once and for all.”

“Much of my family remains in Anaphe, my Lord; we would enter the city with a ready-made power base,” Edmund continued, warming to the topic. “Not to mention, of course, that you are to marry my daughter.”

“Yes,” Valory said, waving a hand towards Edmund distractedly. “Lord Miran, you said there were other candidates?”

“My Lord,” Edmund protested, offended by the Prince’s dismissal.

“Duke Edmund, I worry that your appointment would reek of nepotism,” Valory added, attempting to soften the blow. Edmund’s stance relaxed.

“There are two others, my Lord, though I must caution you against choosing either,” Miran said. “First there is Lord Alec—”

“I notice, Lord Miran, that you are passing over the one man who has a claim to the Stewardship by blood,” Valory interrupted.

Miran’s steely stare raked over his youngest son, resting upon him for a moment before returning his attention to the Prince. “I didn’t know that would be the case before this morning, my Lord. Given the circumstances of his departure and reappearance, I request that you discount his claim to the Stewardship.”

Arden flinched as though struck. Verne’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. The whispers began again, which Edmund spoke over. “As Lord Miran said, my Lord, I have been a loyal servant of the Armathian council all along, and would happy serve you in this capacity.”

Valory frowned. “And again, I worry that your appointment would win me few favors amongst those who would see it as a biased affair.”

“There is Lord Alec, as I mentioned earlier,” Miran continued.

“Please, my Lord Steward – even _you_ protest his claim,” Edmund countered.

“Let High Steward Miran speak,” one of the other councilors spoke up. His words were met with several cries of agreement.

“Lord Alec believes that his experience as a border guard in his youth . . .” Miran continued, extolling the councilor’s supposed virtues in a bored voice.

As he spoke, Valory turned to regard Arden. The shock had passed from his face, leaving white-hot rage in its wake. His hands were clenched into fists. His teeth were gnashed together. His entire frame quaked with the effort of remaining silent. Valory nudged him with an elbow, but he didn’t acknowledge the touch. He was entirely lost in his own mind. _Why won’t he speak up in his own name? I cannot do so on his behalf; I already tried_ , Valory thought. It was clear that Miran planned on settling the matter of Stewardship that moment.

Valory would have no one but Arden as his right hand.

_Surely Arden must know that?_

“. . . and thus he believes himself to be an adequate fit for the position,” Miran finished. A few approving voices chimed in regarding their preference for Lord Alec’s candidacy.

“Lord Alec has not once been to Anaphe,” Edmund pointed out.

“And what of my candidacy, Lord Steward Miran?” Lester asked. “I have a long history as a diplomat, and much knowledge of the inner workings of the Dramorian state. I understand that some think me tainted by my years of service in Indar—”

“As well they should,” Alec muttered.

“I don’t recall consulting your opinion, Lord Alec—”

“Could you even manage the trip to Anaphe? It will occur by ship. We all know how well desert-dwellers take to the sea,” Alec retorted.

“Am I to be repaid after all my years of service by such accusations? How dare you presume that my time in Indar has turned me Dramorian—”

“The trip would crush you, Lester—”

“Crush _me_ , you old sack of bones? Crush _me_? You wouldn’t last a day’s ride in the desert—”

“If I may,” Arden said, stepping forward. His voice, though controlled, cut through the din. The hall fell silent again. “I realize that I have been away from Armathia for many years, and that the circumstances surrounding my departure were far from ideal. With that said, I have served Oceana in my own way these past two decades. I have seen more of the Eastern World than my challengers. I understand better than most the situation at our borders. And I daresay,” he let out a huff of laughter, “I daresay that I could endure a hard day’s ride in the desert – and more.” He turned away from the dais, addressing his next words to Valory. “My Lord Valory, I humbly ask that you allow me to claim my birthright. You would do me a great honor, and perhaps even allow me to erase the black mark my disappearance put upon my House. You will not regret it.” Valory held his gaze for several long, quiet moments. The silence was broken by Miran’s thunderous,

“Enough of this folly!”

“My Lord,” Edmund interjected, “though I do not doubt that Lord Arden has become a fine sailor in all of his years away, do remember that my lovely daughter and I—”

“He’s started it already, using the Prince’s betrothed as leverage,” a councilmember spat.

“Wouldn’t my Lord prefer a Steward with an adequate enchantment?” Lord Lester asked, gesturing to the talisman that hung about his neck. He was an Elementalist. “I have a great talent with both water and flame, my Lord.”

“My daughter is a firestarter,” Edmund dismissed.

“I’m sure Prince Valory will delight in her intermittent ability to light candles,” Lester scoffed.

“Hold your tongue, Lester; that is the reputation of the future Princess you are disparaging,” Miran warned.

“Apologies, my Lords – but my point remains true. I am the only candidate with an enchantment,” Lester continued.

“That is untrue; my brother—” Verne began.

“Hah,” Lester said, “I hardly think his talent is anything to speak of. Isn’t that so, Lord Miran?”

Miran nodded once, slowly. “As I said, my Lord, I recommend that you look outside my House when you make your selection.”

The ringing of Arden’s cutlass being drawn from its scabbard sounded through the chamber. Arden pointed the tip down, resting it upon the stone floor before taking a knee. He switched hands, holding it upright with his left while using his right hand to cover his heart. Valory immediately knew what Arden was doing. He felt the blood begin to pound in his ears. _Thank Gods, finally_.

“What in Fángon’s name do you think you’re doing?” Miran hissed at him, rising from his chair.

Arden ignored him, eyes fixed upon the embroidery on Valory’s collar. He dared not raise his eyes further than that. _Gods, please let this be what Valory wants_. A twisted combination of fear, hope, and anger rose within his breast. _Let it be what he wants, for it is mine to take_. His father’s ire only served to cement his surety. He felt the wind bend to this sentiment, a soft breeze curling through the windows. He tried to tamp down on it but found he lacked the focus; the wind picked up as he made ready to deliver his oath – the same oath that Drand had given to Eramen on the field of battle at the end of an age.

When he spoke, his voice was strong and clear.

“Before the Gods and all of our witnesses, I, Arden son of Miran, pledge my fealty to you, Prince Valory bar Adrianth di Oceana. From this day forth I swear to honor, guard, and guide you with my truest council, always given in good faith and without deception. I will stand with you in all things and keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead, until death take us and Illen bear our souls across the sea.”

The silence that had fallen in the council chamber did not last long. As soon as Valory took a step forward towards Arden, loud objections rang out from all sides. Valory glanced up towards the dais. Miran was shouting to be heard over the chaos, nearly red in the face. His mother sat still in her chair, a slow smile curving her lips. Verne was glancing back and forth between the window and Arden, his face the very picture of confusion.

 _These idiots will not have the luxury of underestimating you any longer, Arden_ , Valory swore to himself. He reached out, one hand covering Arden’s over the pommel of his sword, the other coming up to rest upon Arden’s brow. The force of Arden’s enchantment meeting his was akin to a physical blow. He took a sharp breath in through his nose, remembering his training, allowing the excess energy to run through him rather than pooling inside of his body.

He found that he wasn’t all that surprised when the ground began to tremble. The rest of the council was not so prepared for such a manifestation of talent. The uproar ceased, all eyes focusing silently on the scene before them. A minor Seer and a telekinetic should not have been able to make the ground shake.

“What in Illen’s name?” Verne whispered.

Valory slid his hand from Arden’s brow to cup his cheek, tilting his head upwards. Arden relented, meeting Valory’s eyes, struggling to keep his focus. The power of their combined enchantments was heady, dizzying. They remained unmoving for a few seconds, long enough for worried murmurs to start up amongst the council members.

“Arden,” Valory whispered, a fond smile curving his lips. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Arden breathed.

It was incredible, really. They had never managed to control the amplification of Arden’s enchantment before, yet there was no other explanation for the tremors that ran through the ground beneath them. Valory could feel the thrum of Arden’s enchantment sapping him of his strength, but was too awestruck to care.

His voice, when he found it, rang throughout the chamber.

“Before the Gods and all of our witnesses, I, Valory son of Adrianth, receive you, Arden bar Miran di Oceana, unto my grace and favor. From this day forth I swear to honor, guard, and guide you as your Lord and keeper. So long as you remain true to your word, I will stand with you in all things and keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead, until death take us and Illen bear our souls across the sea.”

Valory lowered his hand from Arden’s face, holding it out for Arden to take. Arden lifted his hand from his heart to clasp Valory’s own, leaning forward to press a kiss to his signet ring. Once his hand was released Valory completed the oath, laying his hand first over his heart before bringing it up to touch two fingers to his brow.

Oath completed, Valory stepped backwards, looking up only to realize that the council hall was in utter disarray; all of the lanterns had blown out and papers littered the ground throughout the chamber. Some councilmembers were muttering under their breaths, touching their brows in superstition. Miran remained half out of his chair, an almost comical look of astonishment on his face.

Persephone recovered first. “Arise, Lord Steward Arden bar Miran. May your years be long, and the wind be ever at your back.”

“And at yours, my Lady,” Arden replied, bowing to the Queen before sheathing his cutlass. When he stood, he moved to Valory’s right-hand side. _This is where my place is, now_ , he thought, giddy with joy.

Valory touched him lightly on the shoulder. They turned to regard the rows of councilmembers. “It is my honor to introduce my Steward, Lord Arden bar Miran,” he said, barely able to keep the smile from his face.

In one motion, the entire Armathian council slid out of their seats to kneel before them. With bowed heads and murmured voices, they each acknowledged Arden as _‘my Lord Steward’_. Although Arden still reeled from the turn of events, he didn’t fail to notice the contemptuous glare that Lester sent his way.

After a moment of silence, Arden realized what the council was waiting for. “You may rise,” he said, permitting them to return to their seats.

“Gentlemen, now that this business has been concluded we will have our recess. We will reconvene tomorrow morning at the usual time. Prince Valory, if you and your Steward would remain behind, we have more matters to discuss,” Miran said, having finally regained his composure.

“Of course, Lord Miran,” Valory nodded.

The Queen rapped her scepter upon the floor twice, calling the session to an end. In a heartbeat the councilmembers had sprung up, gathering their windblown papers and hastening towards the exit. Duke Edmund was the first to leave, still visibly shaken by the turn of events. Lester stormed out after him without a look in the dais’ direction, leaving his followers scrambling in his wake.

Once the doors shut behind the last of the councilors, Miran turned his shrewd stare upon Valory. “My Lord, I hope you know what you are doing. Duke Edmund is upset, and he is not an enemy we wish to make.”

“Edmund was a poor choice of Steward and you know it,” Valory answered, dropping formalities now that they no longer had an audience.

“Valory’s decision was a good one,” Persephone said, looking back and forth between him and Arden. “All is as it should be.”

“Cryptic as always, mother,” Valory sighed.

“He has missed me, hasn’t he?” Persephone asked with a gentle smile, turning towards Miran and Verne.

“Indubitably,” Miran said. _Empath_.

“Am I the only one puzzling over the talent we just saw at work?” Verne demanded. “The very ground shook – what meaning are we meant to take from this?”

“Prince Valory is an Elementalist of great power,” Miran said.

“No,” Valory shook his head. At their raised brows, he corrected, “As a point of fact, yes – I have a powerful enchantment. It was not mine that made the wind blow and the ground tremble, however. That was Arden’s work. On occasion I serve to amplify his enchantment, which is why it took so dramatic a form.”

“Brother?” Verne asked.

“Before I left Armathia I suspected that I was developing an Elemental talent. I was not wrong,” Arden shrugged.

“Over earth and air?” Verne asked.

“All of the elements, to a greater or lesser extent. I suspect I am strongest with air and fire, though that may be a matter of practice rather than innate ability,” Arden replied. The lanterns around the hall relit.

“Murdock said—” Verne began.

“Murdock was wrong,” Arden interrupted.

“Forgive me, brother.”

Miran cut in. “Now is not the time for sentiment; we have more important matters to discuss.”

“What more news can there possibly be?” Valory wondered, something sinking in his gut as Persephone rose from her seat. Miran and Verne stood up automatically, remaining on the dais as Persephone glided down the steps to stand before her son. She took his hands in hers, clasping them tight.

“Your father succumbed to illness two months ago,” she murmured.

Valory swallowed. “Mother, I—”

“I know; we both knew it inevitable.”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Persephone looked up at her youngest son, meeting his eyes with a sad smile. “I miss him terribly, dear.”

Valory drew his mother into a tight embrace, resting his head on her shoulder as he used to do when he was much younger and smaller. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, voice muffled by the embroidered fabric covering her shoulder.

“You were doing your duty; your father wanted it that way,” she said as he released her, taking a step back. “We knew the day was coming. He lived long for a man without an enchantment; I’d call that a blessing in and of itself.”

“Have you had the ceremony yet?” Valory asked. “Is that why you‘re standing in his stead – because you were waiting for me to return home?”

“At first yes,” Persephone said. “We didn’t want word of Siath’s ascension to the throne to get out until you were in Anaphe. But then . . .” she trailed off, shutting her eyes.

“Mother?”

“We knew that circumstances were deteriorating at the border. Your brother and I were trying to help as best we could; we spent much time seeking visions. One afternoon some weeks past, Siath went up to his rooms to attempt another vision of the situation at the Border. We found him hours later, immobile where he had collapsed.” The words came slowly, pained.

“Is he . . .?” Valory couldn’t finish his own sentence. He was dimly aware of Arden’s hands steadying him, one gripping his shoulder, the other his arm.

“He is alive, but unresponsive. He lies still, but his eyes track objects as though he is dreaming.”

“A vision,” Valory said. “You don’t think he remains there willingly.”

“Not for so long,” Persephone replied.

“Prince Valory, we must discuss what our course of action will be if your brother does not wake up,” Miran added.

“He _will_ wake up,” Verne insisted.

“You are next in line for the throne, my Lord,” Miran said.

Valory shook his head. “No. I refuse to usurp my brother’s position. I refuse. We will find the cause and the cure for his entrapment, we will—” he broke off. “Who else knows of this?”

“We could not hide Siath’s absence from the council, and news of his entrapment began to spread shortly thereafter. Who knows that your father has passed? None outside of this room,” Miran replied.

“That is as it should be,” Valory nodded.

“My Lord, this cannot be a coincidence,” Arden said. “Your brother and my brother . . .”

“This is part of the attack,” Valory agreed. “You are right, of course. This is all part of the plan, of—” he broke off, shaking his head. “My brother—”

“We have several hours before we take our meal tonight. It will be a formal affair, my Lord, in honor of your return,” Miran said. “Until then, we have ample time to review the details of your report and form a plan of action regarding Prince Siath’s illness and Elona’s liberation.”

“No,” Arden shook his head. “With all due respect, we have been traveling hard for the past several weeks and I believe my Lord needs time to rest and process this information.”

“You forget your place,” Miran warned.

“To the contrary, I know exactly where my place is: at my Lord’s right-hand side,” Arden countered. Under his breath, he murmured, “Come Val – we both need rest. Let us use this afternoon to review all that we have learned. We can sit in with the council again tomorrow.”

Valory reached up, pressing the hand that clutched his bicep. “My Steward is right,” he said, voice sounding far surer than he felt. “Mother, if I have your leave, I would rather take this afternoon to deliberate with Arden.”

Persephone smiled, touching her son’s cheek. “I hope you get some sleep as well, Valory; it doesn’t take a Healer to feel your weariness.”

“Yes, Mother,” Valory agreed, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

“Lord Arden,” she said, turning to her son’s Steward, “take care of him, would you?”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“Lord Miran, Lord Verne – we will speak more tonight, yes?” Valory asked. Both men nodded.

“Of course, my Lord. Until then,” Miran said.

“Let us adjourn for the day, then,” Persephone said. “I daresay we could all use the break.”

Valory and Arden bowed and turned away from the dais where Miran and Verne remained, shuffling papers and exchanging a few final words about the day’s proceedings. As they passed through the double doors at the end of the hall, Valory leaned in towards Arden.

“Come up to my rooms, will you? Much has come to pass today, and I think I would rather discuss it away from prying eyes.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Arden agreed, falling into step on Valory’s right-hand side.

“Good then,” Valory said, gesturing towards the corridor that led to palace’s westernmost tower. “Lead on, Steward-mine.”


	16. Chapter 16

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 8; 2421_

Valory stood at the window of his bedchamber, staring stony-faced out over the harbor. Arden sat next to him on the settee, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. They had passed nearly a quarter of an hour in silence since reaching Valory’s chambers, each man lost in thought.

A tentative knock at the door startled both men out of their reverie.

“Enter,” Valory called, looking away from the window. A maid entered, balancing a tray expertly upon one shoulder. She peeked around the study before realizing that Valory’s voice had come from the bedchamber. Entering the room, she bobbed a curtsy to both Valory and Arden before shyly toeing her way along the far wall where she left the tray atop the nearest table. With another quick curtsy and a nervous smile she bowed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Valory followed, locking the door before returning to his post at the window.

“My mother will have sent that up,” he said.

“Kind of her,” Arden murmured.

“Yes.”

Arden stood, pacing across the room to examine the contents of the tray. The Queen had requested herbal tea and a small snack on her son’s behalf. While he found that the events of the morning had left him entirely without an appetite, tea sounded like just the thing. He flipped the two cups and poured out the tea, sighing as the comforting scent of the hot liquid wafted up towards him. He stirred a teaspoon of honey into each cup before returning to the window and offering one to Valory.

“Thank you,” Valory said, taking a sip and shutting his eyes.

On impulse, Arden reached up to touch the side of his face, brushing an errant lock of hair away from his brow. Valory relaxed into the caress, peering at Arden through slitted eyes.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Arden said.

Valory let out a long sigh of breath, turning back towards the window. “He lived a long life for a man without an enchantment. We knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Doesn’t make it much easier though, does it?”

Valory shook his head. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Arden sipped his tea again, hands nearly shaking with the effort of maintaining a calm outward appearance. He was Valory’s Steward now, and it wouldn’t do to look an utter wreck mere hours after pledging his fealty. He swallowed hard, staring into the amber colored liquid, willing his eyes not to water. He was elated to be named Valory’s Steward, but with that elation came terrible, gut-wrenching guilt: he was benefitting from his brother’s murder.

“You don’t think your father was a target as well, do you?” he asked.

“No,” Valory shook his head. “He was very ill, and that was no secret. Going after Siath, on the other hand, was a calculated move. They wanted Armathia to be leaderless when the attacks on Kilcoran, Ithaka, and Anaphe came.”

“Yet you remain as a rightful heir,” Arden reminded him.

Valory flinched at the thought. “I doubt that was overlooked. The Sea-Witch King came straight for us at Illen’s Arm, did he not? Were I in Anaphe instead, I would have been targeted there. They went after Conrad in my place.”

Arden sunk down onto the settee, clutching his cup. “Poison, my father said,” he murmured, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Arden.”

“You weren’t the one who poured the draught.” He shook his head. “He went to his grave thinking that I was dead – that I had left him and Verne for small, petty reasons. I let him think that. I was too afraid to ask for an audience with him when we were in Anaphe, and now I’ll never get the chance,” he said, voice cracking.

“You will meet again one day, when Illen bears you East. He will know why it went this way. He will understand,” Valory said, a hand falling to rest upon Arden’s shoulder.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Arden asked, tilting his face upward to meet Valory’s eyes. “I felt such joy when you accepted my oath, yet this joy comes at my brother’s expense. I have all that I wished for since leaving Anaphe because I benefitted from his death.”

“You aren’t alone in that,” Valory said, squeezing Arden’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. “From the earliest days of our voyage, I constantly fought fantasies in which you were my Steward in his stead. I can’t help but wonder whether or not I am being punished for my greed.”

Valory may have appeared outwardly calm, but there was no masking the raw grief in his voice. Arden covered the hand on his shoulder with his own. “I indulged in those fantasies as well. I coveted what was not mine, and now that it is, I find that it comes with no small amount of guilt.”

“I hope you don’t come to regret your oath.”

He met Valory’s eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady. “Regret will not bring him back. He would be furious with me if I used him as an excuse to step away from this title.” He shook his head. “I’ll not make that mistake. I’ll serve in his memory, as best as I can. I will do it justice. I’ll give the council no reason to question your judgment in accepting my pledge.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Valory said, letting out a long breath. “You know that I would have no other as my Steward.”

“I was worried when my father backed Edmund’s claim.”

“Worried? You were furious.”

“That too. It is my birthright, to succeed Conrad. What remembrance would Edmund bring to the title? He must have barely known my brother.” Arden sighed. “Yet of the three councilors, I’ll admit he was the wisest choice.”

“Then thank Gods you were here with me, else I’d have him for a Steward. I still can’t believe your father came out in support of him.”

“My father knows his politics.”

“His words to you were appalling.”

Arden pressed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, fighting against the wetness that threatened to gather there. “Yet unsurprising in the extreme.”

“I will make it very clear to him that he will rue the day he disparages my Steward in front of the council,” Valory swore.

“I’d rather he respected me on account of my merits rather than due to a threat on your part.”

Valory frowned. “I will say nothing if you prefer.”

“I would. You don’t have to defend me to him – to any of them.”

“I find it difficult to hold my tongue. A side effect of caring for you, I’m afraid.”

“It wouldn’t do to make that obvious; especially if your words to Edmund about avoiding accusations of nepotism were more than show,” Arden warned.

“Just so,” Valory agreed.

Arden took another sip of tea, contemplating the thought that had nagged at the back of his mind since the council chamber. “Why do you suppose Edmund was so eager to be named your Steward?”

“Prestige, I’d wager. He has always been the worst sort of social climber.”

“Yet his title encompasses the entirety of the Anaphean peninsula. He could have absorbed the power of the viceroyalty if he was so inclined,” Arden frowned.

“Yet Stewardship is a step above that, especially in Armathia.”

“If he wants your ear, he already has it; he’s poised to enter your family by marriage. Is that not enough for him?”

Valory pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off an oncoming headache. “I suppose not.”

“And Lester,” Arden continued. “We are at war, but he hasn’t been dismissed from office as our Dramorian emissary. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t return to his post at some point in the future – why abandon it now?”

“I think the difference in rank between a diplomat and a Steward is great enough for you to answer your own question.”

“Yet you’ve called his motives into question in the past. You didn’t say anything about what we know of the sultan’s radicalism in council.”

“I didn’t think it would make for productive discussion – at least, not yet. I need to speak with my mother and Miran on the matter first. Do you suspect him of duplicity?”

“He rubs me the wrong way.”

“Already dispensing wise counsel, I see,” Valory said, giving Arden’s shoulder another squeeze.

“Always, my Lord,” Arden murmured. He turned his head to brush a kiss across the back of Valory’s hand.

Valory went quiet for a moment, sipping at the last of his tea. “I know that we spoke of this before, but I feel as though I must say it again. You have pledged your fealty to me, and that fealty I expect you to give. I have no right to the rest, however. You must know that I don’t want anything that isn’t given freely.”

“You still have me, Val. I doubt it will ever be otherwise.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

“I won’t.”

“If you do—”

“You will be the first to know. I won’t let anything damage the work we’re duty-bound to do for Oceana,” he swore. “Does that answer your question?”

“It does,” Valory said, bending to drop a kiss on Arden’s temple.

Arden studied his features from this close proximity, taking in the pinched brow, the downturned corners of his mouth, the tightness of his jaw. “I know what’s wearing at your mind.”

“It seems callous to speak of my living brother when you have just lost yours.”

“There’s no need to construct an arbitrary scale for the sake of comparing sorrow; you’re allowed to be upset.” He shook his head. “To be honest, I would rather speak about your brother than mine.”

“I should go see him.”

“I think he’d rather you rest than stand vigil at his bedside.”

“I was hoping I might learn something from the visit,” Valory said. “If my mother and Verne think him trapped in a vision, I’m not sure how we might prove such a thing.”

“What proof do we need? Every Seer we’ve spoken to has recounted the disturbing turn their visions have taken.”

“Yours included.” Valory agreed.

“Do you suppose something similar happened to Siath? If he and your mother were actively seeking visions, he might have yielded where others resisted.”

“You’re speaking of the Sea-Witch King.”

“Theories, only.” Arden looked him over. “You look like you’re ready to bolt for the door, Val.”

“He needs our help.”

“Neither of us is at our best right now. We’ll be no help to anyone if we collapse from exhaustion. I felt what my enchantment did to you back in the council chamber; I’m surprised either of us is walking straight.”

Valory slumped back against the windowsill. “It seems wrong to rest.”

“If Siath is held by some facet of his enchantment, the battle for his freedom will be waged in the library – not on the deck of a schooner. Do you _really_ want to begin researching prophetic talents right now?”

Valory held his hands up in defeat. “Say no more.” A telltale yawn swallowed the last of his words.

“Don’t, now I’m going to—” Arden’s words were cut off by a yawn of his own.

“There’s a science project for you: why are they always contagious?” Valory mused as Arden set their empty cups down on the windowsill before standing, catching Valory by the wrists and leading him towards the bed.

“I’ll pencil it in after ‘Inquiry—prophetic talents’. Come now, we’ve been awake for at least twenty hours. I’m desperate for a rest.”

As Arden began the work of stripping him of his court finery, Valory said, “I’m not sure that my Steward is meant to play the part of a manservant.”

“Hush,” Arden answered, laying the sword and scabbard across a chair before pulling the fine silken tunic up over Valory’s head. “By my estimation, you have the better part of the afternoon to yourself. The evening meal is going to be a formal affair – bound to be trying.”

“No doubt,” Valory agreed, allowing Arden to drop his trousers to the ground. He stepped out of them obediently before tackling the laces of his smallclothes himself. At Arden’s frown, he said, “If I let you at my laces, I wager we won’t be getting much rest this afternoon.”

Arden smirked, moving away to turn down the Prince’s bed. “True enough. Now in you get.”

“Just a moment,” Valory said, hands straying to Arden’s belt buckle.

“What are you doing?”

“Stay with me,” Valory murmured, dropping Arden’s belt before concentrating his efforts on Arden’s borrowed tunic.

“Of course,” Arden agreed, a calm warmth spreading through him for the first time since they had entered the council chamber.

Once divested of all of his clothing he climbed under the light covers next to Valory. Both men sighed as they sank into the soft mattress, mountains of pillows cradling their aching bodies. They lay in the center of the bed, facing one another, both fighting the temptation to drift off.

Valory reached up to trace his fingertips along the side of Arden’s face, coming to rest at the upper edge of the bandage that wrapped his neck. “I want to check on your wounds when you wake up, Steward-mine,” he murmured, eyelids beginning to slide shut.

“Later,” Arden agreed, gathering Valory into the circle of his arms. Valory hummed contentedly against his shoulder. “Sleep. Rest. The trials of Kings and countries can wait until we wake.”

“You’ll be here, won’t you?”

“Always,” Arden whispered, following his Prince into dreamless sleep.

…

Arden woke with a groan in the late afternoon, arm having long since gone numb where it was trapped between Valory’s ribcage and the mattress. He opened his eyes with a sticky blink, peering at Valory’s dimly lit profile. For a brief moment he wondered when their next watch was. In a rush, the events of the morning returned: seeing Verne again, the audience with the council, Conrad’s death, pledging his fealty, Siath’s affliction.

Valory turned his head to the side, regarding Arden with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Hello,” he whispered.

“Hello,” Arden replied, the final syllable lost against Valory’s lips. “Have you been awake long?”

“A half of an hour, perhaps. We’ve slept away the better part of the afternoon.”

“What decadence. Budge over, would you? I can’t feel my fingers.”

Valory shifted down with an amused snort, allowing Arden to extract and massage his arm. “Could you give us a bit of light?” he asked. “I said I would take a look at your neck and I’d like to make good on that.”

Arden lifted his head, peering around in an attempt to locate all of the room’s candles. They flared to life one by one, casting the room in a warm glow. “By all means,” he said, “go ahead. I’m hoping the bandages can finally come off now that I won’t be spending the better part of each day in the sunlight.”

“You’ve had long enough to mend,” Valory replied, tugging at the linen. Arden shifted as requested, allowing him to unwind the long bandage. The skin still appeared tender, but finally healed over. For the most part the wounds hadn’t been deep enough to scar. It was only on the left side of Arden’s neck that the faintest trace of silver wrapped around from nape to rest in the hollow just above his collarbone.

“What is it?” Arden asked, conscious of Valory’s scrutiny.

“As you suspected, you bear his mark.” Valory traced the whorls of silver with the tip of a finger.

“Careful,” Arden warned, barely suppressing a shiver.

“I haven’t got the sort of talent that would make me vulnerable to his advances,” Valory pointed out. “They don’t seem to be causing you any discomfort.”

“The only discomfort comes from knowing that the vile creature has left his mark upon my body.”

“I felt that way about mine at first as well,” Valory admitted, touching the silvered slit in his brow. “I’m afraid my vanity took a bit of a blow.”

Arden frowned, “I hardly even notice it.”

“My point exactly,” Valory replied, kissing each mark from collarbone to nape, then back again.

Arden arched his neck, tilting his jaw to allow Valory better access. “Yours gives you a rakish air, though. Mine . . .” he trailed off, letting out a deep sigh of pleasure as Valory traced the edges of each mark with his teeth and tongue.

“Objectively speaking, the pattern is rather lovely,” Valory murmured, biting the mark on the back of Arden’s neck hard enough to make him gasp, but not quite hard enough to leave a bruise in his wake.

“S-still,” Arden protested, “it came from the Witch King.”

“Would you rather I left a mark of my own instead?” he asked, sucking at a spot just below Arden’s pulse point.

“Not if I have to put that bandage back on to cover it.”

“Mmm,” Valory agreed, “I suppose that wouldn’t be very discreet of me.”

“We can’t afford the talk: especially not right now.”

Valory heaved a sigh, licking along the hard line of Arden’s collarbone. “True enough. Illen knows your brother has given me the exact same counsel.” A strangled noise caught in his throat and he stopped his ministrations, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “That was thoughtless of me, Arden. Apologies.”

Arden wrapped his arms around Valory’s waist, pulling him close again. “News of Conrad is raw for me, but not so raw that you must censor yourself. He wouldn’t want either of us to dwell, and besides, Stewardship and poor timing aside, I think he would have been pleased that we have found company in one another.”

Valory smiled against Arden’s shoulder. “I could see him giving us the same counsel Master Lawrence did.”

“Master Lawrence? When?”

“Don’t you remember his cryptic little hint? He said that a kernel of good would come from our return to Armathia; that we should let ourselves have it, selfish though it may seem. What else could he have been speaking of?” Valory asked.

“That utter bastard,” Arden shook his head. “He knew!”

“He’d tell us that it wasn’t his place to say anything. Do you see why that sort of talent drives me around the bend, now?”

“Careful, there.”

“You are of an altogether less frustrating type.”

“Yet Lawrence was right; Conrad wouldn’t want our grief over his loss to bleed through and poison all other aspects of our lives.”

“He was a good man, your brother.”

“The best. I hope I do his memory proud.”

“You will,” Valory said with utter conviction. “And I hope you will stand with me when I avenge his death and bring those responsible to justice.”

“Of course I will. I swore to do so, did I not – my own motivations aside?”

“You did. It will be a dangerous and difficult road.”

“So it will be, but I have made my decision: to stand with you, keep faith with you ‘til death take us and Illen bear us East,” Arden swore.

Valory shifted, pressing closer. “We will do this together. In the meantime,” he said, gaze growing heated, “we will live.”

.

Valory came back to himself after a few minutes of drifting blissfully between sleep and wakefulness. He murmured some incoherent endearment, rubbing his nose along the side of Arden’s neck. As he returned to consciousness he seemed to become more aware of the position that they were in. Arden smiled, appearing unbothered by having all of Val’s weight on top of him.

Valory grunted. “Alright?” he asked as he realized that Arden was nearly flattened against the headboard.

“Alright? That – would be an understatement.”

Valory peered up at him through a curtain of their tangled hair. “We’re back on the headboard again,” he observed.

“So we are,” Arden said contemplatively, brushing a lock of their hair out of his lover’s eyes.

“Mmm,” Valory hummed, shuffling backwards. He slid from Arden while lipping at his presented collarbone, rolling onto his back with a contented sigh.

Arden scooted downward, flopping next to him, smiling when Val’s arm immediately came to rest protectively across his chest. “I really wish we could go back to sleep,” he muttered.

“You’re not the only one,” Valory admitted. “I have no desire to sit through this meal . . .”

“Right, to _sit_ through this meal – I’m sure you’ll have such a difficult time of it,” Arden rolled his eyes.

“Apologies,” Valory snorted, aiming for contrite and failing miserably.

“You could at least try not to look so smug,” Arden groused.

“A tall order, that.”

Arden stretched, arching his back with a low groan. “I think I would rather stand night watch in the driving rain than sit through a state dinner.”

“I would join you.”

“I don’t suppose our absences would go unnoticed.”

“Unlikely,” Valory said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “By my estimation, we have a half of an hour before you need to head back to dress for tonight.”

“Oh?” Arden asked, propping himself on one elbow to look down at Valory’s upturned face. Valory reached up, fingers snaking around the back of Arden’s neck.

“I suggest we make use of it.”

…

When Valory was home, he was often called upon to escort women of the peerage to social functions. Betrothed as he was, it was considered ‘safe’ to use him to flatter important families; being seen on a Prince’s arm was a high honor indeed, but no expectations of courtship could come from it. As such, Valory was never fond of the company he kept at state dinners. He had certainly never felt the sort of pride that others described upon securing the right to enter the great hall with a lovely woman on their arm.

That night Valory didn’t have the dubious honor of flirting his family’s way into favor. He did, however, enter the hall with his Steward at his side, decked out in the formal blue and silver hues of his office. Around Arden’s neck hung a second chain, long enough that its silver crescent moon pendant jostled against his talisman with every step. For the first time in Valory’s memory, pride and anticipation thrummed through his veins as they were announced.

They approached the high table together, accepting the polite greetings sent their way by those they passed. Under his breath Valory kept a running commentary on important names and titles for Arden’s sake, though Arden surprised him by remembering a good number of faces on his own.

After issuing polite bows to the Queen, they seated themselves to her left with their backs to the wall. Arden sat with Valory and Verne, noting with no small amount of discomfort that Sybina was placed directly across from him. Miran and Edmund flanked her. Though most of the other occupants of the room were staring rather openly at the new Steward, Sybina was focused entirely on Valory, regarding him beneath demurely lowered lashes.

Arden’s attention was diverted by Verne’s wife, who leaned forward at the table to greet him with a smile.

“Lord Arden, I was wondering if you had that tincture I requested of you.” Her voice was quiet but steady.

“Of course,” Arden assured her, digging in one of his pockets.

Earlier that day his first attempt at an introduction to Agatha had been curtailed; in the midst of the formalities, all of the blood had drained from her face and she had run from the room. Arden – forgetting that privacy concerns were stricter in the city than they were shipboard – rushed after her only to find her hunched over a chamber pot, retching pitifully.

He had fetched a glass of water and begun apologizing for his surprise appearance by the time Agatha could comfortably speak again. She forestalled much of his contrite rambling by matter-of-factly informing him that her condition had nothing to do with his supposed resurrection. She was with child, as it so happened, and would he please pass her that hand towel?

Verne found them sitting on the floor of the washroom some minutes later, Arden listening with rapt attention as Agatha recounted Verne’s uncharacteristically jubilant reaction upon finding out that he was to be a father. Arden took heart in her words; Verne had married long after Arden left Armathia, and had done so for purely political motivations. He was glad to see that his brother had made a happy match in Agatha, and that their regard for one another had grown over the passing years.

Agatha ended her tale by inquiring rather straightforwardly after sailors’ methods for combatting nausea; she had no desire to spend the entire evening running in and out of the great hall as her stomach demanded. It was that tincture, therefore, that Arden obligingly sought out, transported, and passed to her as soon as he was seated.

“Thank you,” Agatha murmured, “I hope it wasn’t too difficult to obtain.”

“Not at all,” Arden said. He had sent a messenger to the fort to scare up a portion; the bottle had been delivered alongside a note in Imran’s angular script, congratulating him on the new addition to the family and detailing several different foods and beverages known for their anti-emetic properties.

“Kind of you, nevertheless,” Agatha added as she uncorked the bottle and gave its contents a delicate sniff. Nodding in approval, she upended the bottle over her cup.

Arden took a moment to wonder what the baby would look like. Would he have fair skin like his father, or his mother’s caramel-colored complexion? Would he have his father’s grey eyes, or his mother’s hazel ones? His father’s brown hair, or his mother’s glossy black ringlets?

His idle thoughts about his new nephew were interrupted by Valory, who turned around when he smelled the familiar concoction Agatha had poured into her cup. “Ginger?” he queried. His eyes darted towards Agatha who sat with one hand resting upon her stomach. “Ah. Congratulations are in order, then?”

Verne nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You are perceptive my Lord. We are very blessed.”

“Has the child a name?”

“I have decided upon Alistair.”

“My brother has Seen him, then?” Valory asked.

“He did before . . .” Verne trailed off, almost-smile fading.

“Yes. Well. It’s a fine name for the future High Steward,” Valory completed.

Their quiet conversation hushed as the Queen stood, welcoming all those present and leading the room in a brief prayer. Those words served as a cue for the serving staff who bussed out heaping plates of food for the assembled guests. Wine flowed freely, and the noise inside the great hall increased as conversations resumed.

Valory, Edmund, and Miran launched into a tense debate on Westernese politics as soon as the meal was served. Arden noted that Miran and Edmund both pointedly avoided asking his opinion, directing their inquiries to the Prince instead. He sighed, picking up his fork with one hand, grasping his pendant under the table with the other. He was too exhausted to fight for a place in the conversation. Instead, he savored the traditional Armathian pork dish and let his mind wander.

Someone at the other end of the table had an annoying enchantment; one that tickled when he breathed in through his nose. He could barely feel Sybina’s, though that didn’t surprise him overmuch. Valory’s was present as always, warm and soft as it cradled his ribs. He fingered the pendant fondly, tracing its rounded edges and fine filigree.

Hours earlier he had been dressed and ready to leave Valory’s rooms when the man had launched himself out of bed and begun digging through his dresser drawers like a man possessed. The pendant had been located beneath a pile of winter waistcoats and displayed to Arden with a triumphant flourish.

 _‘Verne will doubtlessly lend you something in your House’s colors for tonight, but I won’t have you attend without my sigil,_ ’ he had said.

Arden had taken the pendant and examined it. _‘Is this yours?_ ’

_‘My great-uncle Valoren’s; found amongst his things after his death.’_

_‘Why is it silver?’_

_‘I suppose it must have been his Steward’s once. Valoren kept it all those years._ ’ Valory placed it around Arden’s neck, brushing a tender caress over the spot where it touched his sternum. _‘Now it’s yours._ ’

“It is a lovely piece, isn’t it?” Persephone’s quiet words cut through his reverie.

“Yes, my Lady,” Arden agreed, looking up from his dinner. “It was a very kind gift.”

“You never knew Lord Steward Nathaniel, did you?” she asked.

“Is that to whom this belonged?” Arden asked, wracking his memory for any trivia about his father’s uncle – High Steward Alistair’s younger brother.

“Valoren commissioned it for him, I’m told. After his death, Valoren carried it around in his pocket for years.”

“Valoren went a long while without a Steward,” Arden noted.

“Even if your father had brothers, I doubt he would have accepted their pledges.”

“Oh?” He had memorized the lineages of all major Houses long ago, but reference books rarely touched upon personal matters. “They must have been close, then, the Regent Valoren and Steward Nathaniel.”

“The best of friends,” Persephone nodded, gaze slipping sideways to ensure that Miran and the others remained distracted, “though not quite as close as you and Valory.”

Arden fought the blush that crept up his neck at the insinuation. “My Lady—” he stammered.

“I must admit,” she continued, “I was not entirely surprised by your appearance today. Once I saw your face, it made sense of something I had Seen long ago.”

“Is that so, my Lady?”

“It is. My visions are vivid, though not always prophetic; I often See what once was, or what could have been. Sometimes I See what may come to pass. On rare occasions I See what will be.”

“You can tell the difference?” he blurted out.

“Sometimes. That is why we so rarely share what we See directly, except in retrospect.”

“Are you sharing something with me now in retrospect, then, my Lady?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair as Persephone dropped her voice.

“Many years ago I had a vision of my son standing in the center of his rooms with a man I did not recognize. The man was bare-chested except for his talisman, a fresh bandage, and the arms circled around his waist.”

“Oh Gods,” Arden said, blush worsening.

“No need to be embarrassed, Lord Arden; I am quite accustomed to visions bringing me into the private lives of others. I imagine this particular image stood out from the rest simply because I was a young woman then, and you were quite striking.”

Arden choked on his wine. Persephone’s eyes twinkled with mischief. _This must be where Val gets it from._ “My Lady.”

“I confess, I knew you the moment I saw you in the council hall,” she continued.

“Yet you permitted me to pledge my fealty to your son,” he said, flustered and confused.

Persephone let out a long sigh, eyes flicking up to regard Sybina, who was deep in conversation with Agatha. “You must know, Lord Arden, that there is little I do not See. I know that my son will do what he must for Oceana. As his Queen this pleases me, but as his mother . . . I do not wish to see him suffer.”

“Ah.”

“As such, I have waited many years to make the acquaintance of the man with the sorrel hair and the bandage wrapped about his neck. I confess I did notice your resemblance to the man in my vision when you were younger, but I didn’t realize you were one in the same.”

“Why did you not say anything, my Lady?”

“Even if I had been certain it was you that I Saw, you know that I am not meant to interfere.”

“I suppose not,” he said.

“Such silence is not always the easiest thing, as you well know.” She gestured toward his talisman.

“I hardly have your abilities, my Lady,” he demurred.

“I have heard that you are a man with powerful intuition. Remember that not all Sight comes with visions,” she reminded him. “Seers and Empaths must always trust their instincts. That is when Illen whispers in their ears.”

Arden nodded. It was sage advice. He could understand why the council stood by her in Adrianth’s absence; her wisdom and regal bearing made her a more than worthy ruler. “I will take your words to heart, my Lady.”

“Do. I would have you take my earlier words to heart, as well. I’m glad that my son found you in Anaphe. You have my blessing, but you must be careful.”

“Of course,” he nodded.

Once she had his assurance, Persephone turned her attention back to other conversations occurring around the table. Miran, Verne, and Edmund squabbled about reinforcing Anaphe’s border while Valory listened, clearly disinterested. Sybina and Agatha continued their conversation about the music that tinkled through the hall, courtesy of a small group of string musicians in the corner. Every few moments Sybina’s eyes roved over to Valory, who either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge the scrutiny.

“What were you and my mother on about?” The words were murmured close enough to his ear that Arden felt shivers crawl up his spine.

“Visions,” he replied.

“What sort?”

“She Saw us,” he whispered.

Valory arched a brow. “In bed?”

“What? No,” Arden spluttered, “in your study, before council.”

“That’s not so bad, then.”

“She _knows_ ,” Arden stressed.

“Of course she does; she’s my mother. She’d have known with or without the vision to help her. I could never get anything past her as a child; I fail to see why this would be any different. Is that why your cheeks are such a fetching shade of red?”

“I think I’m starting to understand what you meant when you told me how frustrating it is to live with a Seer.”

Sybina, noticing that Valory had bowed out of the political debate raging across the table, took that opportunity to insinuate herself in their conversation. “What do you think of the music, my Lords?”

She really was quite beautiful, Arden noted. Her elegantly styled hair was long and Dramorian-dark. Unlike her father her complexion took on color from the sun; a testament to her late mother’s Oceanic heritage. Long lashes framed large, doe-like eyes. Arden hated her. _Unfair of me, but so it goes._

“Pleasant enough, Lady Sybina. I didn’t take you for a lover of the violin,” Valory answered.

“I cannot play it myself, but it is my favorite to listen to. It has a pretty voice for Anaphean music. I look forward to hearing more of it in the future.”

“I presume you are referencing our imminent move to the peninsula,” Valory said.

“Yes, my Lord. I spend much time thinking about it.” She gazed coyly up at him from beneath her lashes.

Arden frowned. _Flirtation._

“What about you, Lord Arden?” Edmund joined the conversation. “You must be familiar with Anaphean culture, having recently come from the peninsula. What do you think of our musicians?”

“I regret to say I’ve never heard a proper Anaphean court performance,” Arden replied.

“How can you never have been to the Anaphean court, my Lord?” Edmund asked, tone deceptively light.

Arden chose his words with care. “As you know from reading Prince Valory’s report, I traveled under an assumed name. Needless to say the First Officer of the _Windjammer_ didn’t receive many invitations to such functions.”

“Assumed name or no, I’m sure your honorable brother would have been happy to extend the invitation,” Edmund replied. It was a subtle barb, but a barb nonetheless.

“Conrad was unaware of my visits to Anaphe,” Arden said, voice level.

“Is that so? How odd; when I first heard that you used a false name, I assumed you did so to blend in with the low-born. It seems you had another motivation, however, if you were hiding from your own family.”

Throughout this exchange, Sybina had kept her eyes lowered. When she spoke, her posture was demure – innocent. “Father, surely my Lord would not take a Steward who would do such a dishonorable thing. I’m sure Lord Arden had his reasons.”

Arden couldn’t tell whether or not it was an act. “I did indeed, Lady Sybina.”

“You see, Father?” she asked.

“Of course,” Edmund said, a feigned smile pulling at his features.

“Once I am sworn to the Prince, I will be glad to introduce you to our music, Lord Arden,” Sybina continued. Arden tensed, fighting the scowl that threatened to twist his face.

“Generous of you, Lady Sybina,” Valory said. His hand pressed Arden’s knee beneath the table, thumb rubbing a soothing circle.

A genuine smile curled Arden’s lips, shoulders relaxing. “I look forward to learning more about your city’s musical traditions.”

The palm pressed to his inseam made it difficult for Arden to care when Sybina attempted to draw them back into conversation. Edmund resumed his debate with Miran in the meantime, and so Arden soon found himself losing focus yet again. He leaned back in his chair and nursed his wine. He already missed grog.

“She sets you on edge.” Verne’s murmured words nearly made him jump in his chair.

Arden pursed his lips. He remembered Verne’s inconvenient observations from youth – the man’s ability to detect falsehood was unbelievable – but after a time he had become more practiced at hiding his thoughts from view. Verne had never developed telepathic abilities, but he was adept at reading the impressions that others left unguarded. Arden felt himself close up; he could tell from the knowing look in Verne’s eyes that he had managed to shut his brother out.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “She’s a bit young for a bargaining chip, don’t you think?”

“If your talent is as strong as I’m led to believe, I should think that your definition of ‘young’ is skewed at best,” Verne replied.

“She’s eighteen,” Arden murmured.

“She should have been wed two years ago. My father and I both advised Prince Valory on the matter, but he left before seeing it through. Duke Edmund grows impatient.”

“Yet their union is contracted, and she is not yet in her prime,” Arden pointed out.

“I think your time with mercenary crews has dulled your recollection of such matters amongst the upper classes, brother. A titled woman’s prime peaks the day she reaches her majority – you know this. Edmund worries that the Prince’s delays will give him room to doubt the purity of his heirs.”

“Va— Prince Valory wouldn’t do such a thing; not with what’s at stake. Besides, it’s not as though his sons would stand to inherit,” Arden said, feeling vaguely nauseous as he said the words.

“Edmund has scented the Prince’s disinterest. He does not – and cannot – understand its source,” Verne replied. “It makes him nervous.”

“What source?”

“I’m sure I have never made such a personal inquiry,” Verne said primly, “but I am told that their enchantments conflict.”

“Something Edmund would not expect because he is Dramorian by blood, if not by country of birth,” Arden completed, thankful that Verne had not struck upon the real reason.

“Yes. That, of course, but the Prince is also stubborn and a bit disdainful of commands he does not agree with – bear that in mind, as his Steward – and so he is putting Edmund off in protest, I suspect.”

“Of the King’s command?”

“Quite. I have tried to convince him that he will relish her company once he lets go of his knee-jerk rebellion, but he pays me no mind. It is not I who has his ear.” Verne leveled a significant glance at him.

“You have spoken with your Lord about this, I presume?”

“My Lord Siath always vibrated with a confusing array of emotions whenever I brought the subject up, and so I deemed it best avoided. The Prince’s behavior is a poor reflection upon the both of them, I suppose. Some think it strange that he has not set his claim upon a woman so beautiful.”

“Do they?” Arden murmured, gaze flicking briefly back at Sybina, who was engaging Valory in a genuine  attempt at conversation.

“She _does_ discomfit you,” Verne said, almost to himself. “Truly brother, has it been so long since you have seen a lady of breeding? My wife has a number of acquaintances who would be more than happy to have you.”

“ _Verne_ ,” Arden admonished.

Verne’s eyebrows rose. “Have you as a _husband_ , Arden; my goodness, has your mind been denigrated to that of a common sailor’s?”

Arden rolled his eyes. Verne would have long since fainted in a fit of apoplexy if he could have heard some of the things that had passed his little brother’s lips that day alone. “No,” he corrected, “but I’ll confess that I’ve given little thought to the idea of marriage. If my Lord Valory wishes it of me, then so be it; if not I daresay I will remain a bachelor.”

“Careful,” Verne warned, “such words may earn you a reputation as a scoundrel, particularly if you find yourself so moved by Lady Sybina.”

 _Gods, Verne – how are you so oblivious?_ He was tempted to voice the question aloud, but feared it would come out alongside a smug diatribe about being uncomfortable around Lady Sybina because he had spent the better part of the afternoon shagging her betrothed senseless. The look on his straight-laced brother’s face would be priceless.

“I will proceed with discretion,” he said, opting for the less incendiary approach.

“Indeed,” Verne said, quirking a brow as both Edmund and Valory stood, excusing themselves from the table. “Do you see?” he continued. “Edmund will press him to make good on his promise. As should you.”

“I doubt there will be time for a wedding before the campaign to Elona,” Arden said, afraid that his statement sounded far happier than he had intended.

“Not with the Prince as reluctant as he is, no,” Verne agreed. “Edmund will not be pleased.”

“Is he ever?” Arden wondered.

Verne snorted. “On occasion.”

“What, when his nose is far enough up the Queen’s—”

“Arden.”

“Toady,” he muttered.

“ _Arden_.”

As Verne continued to chastise Arden for his cheek, Edmund and Valory ducked behind a column near the balcony doors in order to carry on their conversation in private.

“I assume you wish to speak about what happened in the council hall earlier today,” Valory said, lounging back against the decorative column. “I bear you no ill will, but it would have been indecorous of me to appoint my betrothed’s father to such a station.”

Edmund’s lips thinned. “I maintain, my Lord, that I was a better choice, but it is of no matter now; what’s done is done.”

“Then?” Valory asked.

“Are you intending to make an honest woman of my daughter, my Lord?” he pressed.

“Is she not still honest? I have certainly made no attempt upon her virtue,” Valory replied, deliberately obtuse.

“My Lord,” Edmund continued, voice strained, “she has waited for two years already.”

“I will marry once I am made Regent.” His tone brokered no arguments.

Edmund tried anyway. “Surely my daughter’s many charms would bolster your spirits before the campaign to retake Elona. She is very taken with you, and looks forward to being a dutiful wife.”

“I will not dissemble with you,” Valory said, voice clipped. “I have not made good upon our agreement because of the life that I lead. Should we marry now, Lady Sybina stands a good chance of becoming a widow ere this conflict ends. She will not so fetch so high in my wake.”

Edmund frowned. Valory was avoiding marriage yet again, but he was not wrong. “My Lord, she is more than willing—”

“If she holds me in such high esteem, then it should warm her heart that I so carefully consider her future prospects.”

In the center of the great hall several couples had stood and begun to dance, twirling around the open space in a series of precise, choreographed motions.

“It shall, my Lord,” Edmund said, conceding the point. “I see they have opened the floor. Sybina—”

“I will have a dance with her if she so desires,” Valory interrupted, cutting off the question before Edmund had a chance to answer. “Is that all for now?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Edmund stammered.

“In that case I will take your leave; I have been neglectful of the rest of my guests. You may assure your daughter that I will seek her out before the end of the hour.”

“I will, my Lord.”

Valory left Edmund standing at the column. Half of the occupants of the high table had already stood and begun mingling around the room. Verne had just helped Agatha out of her chair and drawn her out for a dance – likely their only one of the evening. In the background, the string quartet drew out the first strains of a slow, sweet melody.

Arden remained seated, sipping at his glass while he watched the couples twirl on the floor. Valory stepped forward and rested a hand on the back of his chair, fingertips just barely brushing against the nape of his neck. “Lovely melody, isn’t it?” he murmured in Arden’s ear. Arden hummed his agreement. “I would take you out onto the floor if I could.”

Arden turned his head, a sliver of a smile on his lips. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“Not unless you enjoyed following my lead,” Arden teased. “We would look a right mess if we tried.”

“I suppose we would at that,” Valory said, a brief quirk of his lips hinting at the smile Arden would have received had they been in private. “We will both be busy making our circuit of the room after this; I might not see you before you go. Will you come up for a nightcap once we’re through here?”

“More wine?”

“It doesn’t have to involve wine unless you want it to,” Valory amended.

“So, grog . . . or?”

“Stop having me on,” Valory reprimanded. “Will you come?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Arden agreed, smile broadening.

“I’m looking forward to it, Steward-mine.”


	17. Chapter 17

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 13; 2421_

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Arden noted as soon as the door clicked shut behind them.

Valory felt a comforting hand land on his shoulder and sit there for a heartbeat before skimming down his back. He relaxed into the embrace, leaning his head against Arden’s. “I thought so at first as well, but he’s too still for sleep. Nothing moves but his eyes.”

After several days of interminable council meetings and familial obligations, Arden found some time to accompany Valory to Siath’s quarters. Since their arrival in Armathia, Valory had spent most of his free hours at his brother’s bedside. He had suspicions regarding the nature of Siath’s entrapment, but could do little without outside aid. He wanted his Steward’s opinion on the matter before presenting any findings to the council.

“Do you think our suspicions were right?” Arden asked.

“I want you to take a look without my opinion lending you a bias.”

“Alright,” he agreed, extracting himself from Valory’s arms and approaching Siath’s bedside.

The Crown Prince lay still on his own bed, privacy concerns preventing him from being moved into a sick room. The sheet tucked around his body remained neatly pressed at the corners, validating Valory’s observation of his brother’s unusual stillness. His arms lay flat over the sheet, face slack and expressionless, unkempt stubble marring the defined line of his jaw. His eyes were closed, but Arden could see the lids twitching with motion as Siath’s eyes tracked intangible objects.

The familial resemblance between Siath and Valory was unmistakable. Siath’s dark hair was straighter than Valory’s, although it was clear that they preferred a similar length and cut. Overall it seemed almost as though the same features had been put upon two differently shaped faces; Siath’s thinned where Valory’s widened and squared off at the jaw. Siath was a shade paler from time spent indoors, and wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and mouth. The brothers were two years apart, but the differences in their enchantments had begun to show; Siath looked older than that.

Arden contemplated the greying at Siath’s temples, wondering for a brief moment what Valory would look like when he began to age. He shook his head, pushing the idle thought from his mind. _Wait._ He froze, narrowing his eyes at the hair once more. _That’s not grey, and it’s not just on his temples_. He moved to kneel at Siath’s bedside, edging closer to get a proper look. The hair there was shot through with silver-grey, yes, but the silver tint extended past his hairline and almost to the corner of his eyes.

He looked at Valory over his shoulder. “He bears the mark.”

“That’s what I thought,” Valory said, a grim set to his features.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this before,” Arden admitted. “He must well and truly hold power over Siath’s mind. Hopefully it’s not—” he cut himself off.

“Not what?”

Arden looked away. “Our marks were given to us by wounds.”

“You’re worried that the creature has wounded my brother’s mind?”

“The possibility did occur to me, though it’s merely conjecture. I wouldn’t want you to worry on account of my blind theorizing,” Arden explained.

“I will worry in either case,” Valory frowned. “If this is the Sea-Witch King, what can we do? If he has pulled my brother into a vision as he almost did to you, to Master Lawrence, to my mother . . .”

“I don’t know. At the moment I’m elbow-deep in research on the mind-magic of witches, but I’ve get to come to any conclusions. Either way, I think our next step is to Elona. The witches will defend the outpost; we will have the opportunity to encounter the Sea-Witch King when we are there.”

“If we fail, he may hold onto my brother’s mind forever. Yet if we do kill him . . . how do we know that he will not take my brother’s mind with him to the locker?” Valory asked.

Arden rocked on his heels, back connecting with the Valory’s shins. The contact was reassuring, if the words weren’t. “I doubt there are any guarantees in such a case. I will consult all of the resources we have, we will come up with a plan, and we will pray to the Gods that it works.”

“If he doesn’t wake up . . .” _I will become King._ He didn’t have to finish the sentence aloud for Arden to understand what he meant.

“As you’ve always told me, you will do what duty demands of you.”

“I would make an awful King.”

“I doubt that. Unhappy, perhaps; awful, no.”

“It would be akin to serving in Anaphe, only without hope for escape.” Valory’s tone was flat.

“Hopefully it will not come to that.”

“What do you think will come to pass?” he asked.

Arden was silent for a moment, chewing his lip. “I don’t know. I don’t have the talent that your mother does. I only know that I have faith in you, and that faith is neither subjective nor misplaced. If you had to take the crown, you would do your forbears proud. That’s all I can say.”

“Some of the councilors are already whispering in my ear – little simpering pleasantries meant to turn my head and garner my favors. They’ve never paid me any mind before; they do so now only because they have given up on Siath,” Valory growled.

“It is the way of the politician Val, you know that.”

Valory scowled, grief at seeing his brother in such a state fanning the flames of his ire. “I would relish the opportunity to wipe the smug little grins off of their fawning faces.”

“Unfortunately my Lord,” Arden said, trying to lighten Valory’s mood, “I cannot advise such a course of action.”

Valory let out a sigh, sinking down to the floor next to Arden. He met Arden’s eyes with a fond, yet sad, smile. “And what would you do if I chose to pursue it regardless of your counsel?”

“I suppose I would have to hold Lester’s arms so the punch landed cleanly, my Lord,” Arden teased. Sobering, he said, “I hope the incautious words of the Armathian council are not chipping away at your hope for Siath’s recovery. They know nothing of the situation; believe me.”

Valory shook his head. “I have faith in my brother’s strength. All we need do is give him the opportunity to escape the Witch King’s clutches.”

“If that is what he will need, then I will do my best to figure out how to provide it.”

“Thank you,” Valory murmured, lacing his fingers with Arden’s own.

Arden squeezed his knuckles. “Are you alright?”

“What, aside from threatening violence against the entirety of the council chamber?” Valory rested his chin upon the edge of Siath’s mattress. “You know I have no love lost for the city. It feels stifling.”

“At least we can see the sea.”

“I don’t mind the mountains or the desert either, mind you. As long as I can sleep without a layer of stone between my head and the sky, I am content.”

“Soon we will have to head to the isles, and we will have a bit of that – double edged sword though the enterprise may be,” Arden promised him.

Valory sighed. “I’m afraid I’m full of complaints today.”

“We haven’t had it easy since our return. I know why you called it stifling; I feel as though I must be ever-vigilant here: always awake, always alert. And then there’s the matter of your father and my brother . . . it’s exhausting.”

“Yes,” Valory agreed, “and it’s making me into an irritable bastard.” He paused. “When we were younger, Siath used to refer to me as ‘the bear’ whenever I had been in Armathia for too long.”

“I can see that being the case.”

“He used to beg me to go for a few days’ sail up the coast on one of our little sloops, lest my presence turn an otherwise civil council into a verbal bloodbath. For a while I thought he was saving himself the trouble of apologizing to those I would cause offense. After some time I realized that he was doing me a favor. Looking out for me.”

“Verne was always protective as well, even if he never knew quite what to do to make things easier for me,” Arden allowed. “I think I mystified him, but he tried anyway. We were never very close, but he was always there. A watchful set of eyes that saw everything, but unlike Father, never scolded.” He paused. “You and Siath were close, weren’t you?”

“I idolized him when we were younger. He introduced me to everything. He put me on my first horse, gave me my first practice sword, showed me how to nock my first arrow. He was always there when I got into trouble, always able to talk his way out of it on my behalf.”

“You two must have been nightmares in the nursery.”

Valory’s lips twitched. “You’ve already claimed to have heard about some of my exploits. The worst of them are unknown purely through his intervention.”

“Oh?” Arden asked.

“There is a difference between child’s play and the sort of thing that might genuinely damage a reputation.”

“Very true.”

“I didn’t understand that when I was younger. As such I tended to be incautious,” Valory said.

“How so?”

“Socially, politically, personally . . .” Valory trailed off.

“Not for nothing, but I imagine the Armathian court was rather used to you by the time you grew old enough for your mischief to have any real consequence.”

“That wouldn’t have spared me entirely. I escaped a rather severe blunder around the time I came of age. Did your brothers make any . . . arrangements on your behalf when you reached your majority?”

Arden shook his head. “I asked them not to. They thought me odd for it, but they assumed I was preoccupied with my studies. I was fortunate that they did not question me further; I was well aware of my predilections by that point. Did Siath do aught for your celebration?”

“He did. I had suspicions about myself, but I was eager to confirm them, and well . . . I was sixteen, Arden; I suppose I was eager on all fronts. The next morning I rather placidly informed Siath that he should have found me a willing lad rather than a willing lass.”

“Brave of you,” Arden noted.

“More ignorant than brave, to be honest. Siath was the heir, and I assumed that I could therefore do as I please. I based my assumptions on what I perceived to be Valoren’s bachelorhood. Of course he was nearly one hundred and fifty at the time, and I hadn’t thought to ask whether or not he had been married earlier in his life. He had; men in my position have long been used to subdue uncooperative families through marital alliance.”

“What did Siath say?”

“He was upset with himself for not noticing. Can you believe that?” Valory asked. “Thank the Gods for him, though. I’d had no plans on being discrete with my dalliances. Siath decided it was his duty as my older brother to find me suitable company whilst also keeping the nature of my proclivities from the public eye.”

“It must have been nice to have an ally in such matters,” Arden observed. “If Verne ever suspected, he does not think so any longer. He accused me of harboring inappropriate thoughts about Lady Sybina.”

Valory snorted. “That’s delightfully ironic, isn’t it?”

Arden smiled. “I thought so, too.” His expression sobered. “When Siath wakes—”

“He’ll work it out just as my mother did, but he won’t say anything to Verne. He’ll know it would be a disaster if Miran got wind of it.”

“He’s a good brother.”

“He is; the best sort. I’ve never met a man with a kinder heart. He will be a great King.” Valory’s voice took on a bit of a raw quality. “It’s why we have to get him out of this vision. I cannot rob Oceana of my brother.”

“We will fight for him. For all of them: Siath, Conrad, your father.”

The bells of the cathedral rang out, marking the hour. Valory groaned, lifting his head and hefting himself to his feet. He held a hand down to Arden, pulling him upright. They closed the door behind them as they left Siath’s bedchamber. It was time for afternoon council already; one which neither of them had any desire to attend. Arden was halfway to the door to the hall, adjusting his tunic as he went, when Valory stopped him with a hand to the elbow.

Arden turned, only to find himself the recipient of a heated kiss. Valory’s hands ran down his back, cupped his buttocks, hooked into his belt. He responded before he had a chance to think, pressing against Valory in a sinuous slide, relishing in the slip of their silken garments. Valory lipped a kiss to each silvered mark on Arden’s neck, a low pleased hum vibrating in his throat.

“If you keep on like this, we’re going to have a very difficult time concentrating on what’s said this afternoon,” Arden warned him.

Valory smirked against his collarbone, eyes full of mischief. “Exactly. We need _something_ to get us through the deluge of idiocy we’re about to suffer.”

…

_He warred within himself over whether he preferred the presence of the creature or the oppressive inky cold that surrounded him at all other times. He’d had what felt like ages to contemplate the creature’s cryptic words, few and far between though they were. Still he waited, no surer of what was happening than he had been when he first sunk into the vision._

_The appearance of the Sea-Witch King had, at least, explained the impenetrable damp darkness of his surroundings; he was in the locker, the final resting place for lost and evil souls. On some level he knew that it was an illusion – that Fángon had not borne him down on the Ship of the Damned, that he would not be eternally confined here, that his body was still back in Armathia, possibly even lying where it had been when he first collapsed. His vision felt ages long, yes, but he knew the deceptive nature of Sight. It could have been minutes, days, or weeks since he last stared out over the harbor. Somehow, knowing that he wasn’t in the locker did nothing to ease the chill in his bones._

_When he puzzled over the length of his confinement, his thoughts turned to his family. What if hours had passed, and his prone form had been discovered? What if days had passed and he remained immobile? He hated to think of the anxiety he was causing them – particularly his mother, who had already suffered enough. If he had in fact been gone for long, he feared that things might have fallen into disarray in his absence._

_He was unsurprised that thoughts of home and family served to focus the creature’s attention upon him once more. The now-familiar silver ripples swimming across his vision ultimately yielded the creature’s grotesque form, hissing as it appeared. It looked much the same as it did the last time they spoke save for one of the tentacles, which seemed to have been cleanly shorn off. It hung limp from the side of his head, a cross-section of gelatinous fibers visible from the blunt end._

_“Have a bit of a run in with a broadsword, did you?” he asked._

_“Sssss,” the creature hissed, wounded tentacle twitching._

_“Was that a ‘yes’? I’m afraid I don’t speak fish,” he replied, keeping his voice level despite the nerves that fluttered within him._

_“Insssolent,” the creature warned. “Like your brother.”_

_Siath froze, thoughts spinning wildly. “What do you know of my little brother?”_

_“He will be fun to play with. To hunt.” A black pointed tongue snaked out of its mouth to lick at colorless lips. “I like it when my prey offers a challenge.”_

_“Stay away from him.”_

_Clicking laughter escaped the Witch King’s throat. “He is mine. He has my mark.”_

_Siath blanched, remembering the conspicuous scar Valory acquired on his first voyage to Halen. “What, afraid you wouldn’t recognize him otherwise?”_

_“Mine are marked so the others do not interfere. None of my playthings essscape when the time comes.”_

_“You are naught but a bloodthirsty beast,” Siath said. “What use do you have for my mind if all of your joy comes from the hunt?”_

_“He wantsss you.”_

_“Who is ‘He’?”_

_“You will know Him. You will know Him and bow to Him, or He will destroy you.”_

_“‘He’ should know by now that men of Oceana do not cave in the face of such simple threats.”_

_“Sssimple?” Another series of clicks. “He has promised that I will have your brother, if you deny Him. You are His, but your brother will be mine.”_

_“I think Valory will turn out to be a more difficult target than you claim.”_

_A low hiss and the scene before Siath’s eyes changed again. He was on the deck of a ship in the middle of the night, battle raging around him. The hisses and shrieks of witches pierced the air, complemented by panicked shouts and cries of men overwhelmed by the bloodthirsty creatures._

_Before the mast a young man fought, broadsword flashing in the lantern light as he hacked at any witch that drew near. He wielded his weapon with brutal efficiency, flinging filthy, condescending invectives at his adversaries. Siath felt his stomach drop at the sight of the snarling dark-haired soldier._

_He watched helplessly as the Sea-Witch King approached – tentacles all intact – and engaged the soldier, forcing him backwards towards the side of the boat. Each swipe of its razor-like claws came closer to striking its mark. Siath gasped as a claw bit into the soldier’s leather breastplate just next to the golden-stamped crescent moon. The soldier stumbled, leaving himself unguarded; a claw sliced down the side of his face, blood flowing freely._

_“Oh Gods, Val,” Siath whispered as his twenty-two year old brother fell over the side._

_As Valory hit the water, Siath’s perspective shifted. He watched his brother struggle on the surface, choking on a lungful of water and fighting his way back to the side of the boat. Just as he reached the hull, a webbed hand wrapped around one ankle, dragging him under._

_Siath looked on in horror as the scene was repeated time and again; the Witch King played mercilessly with his quarry, allowing Valory a scant few breaths of air before dragging him down. It pulled him deep enough that the pressure beat at Valory’s skull before releasing him, clicking with amusement as he fought his way back to the surface._

_“Do you sssee?” the monster’s voice hissed in Siath’s ear._

_In front of his eyes, Valory’s struggles grew first desperate, then weaker as he began to tire. “You will pay for this,” he swore._

_“The Princeling is mine. This is how his life will end, if you do not cooperate.”_

_The Valory in his vision finally gave up, limbs stilling. Siath could only watch as he was dragged down to the deep. The vision faded, leaving the Witch King standing before him once more._

_“You failed last time. My brother survived. What makes you think he won’t escape again?”_

_“Next time,” it swore, lips pulled back into a feral grin, “there will be no one to save him. Next time I will ssslice through bone and sinew so he cannot swim away. Next time we will feed upon him while he watches.”_

_Siath fought the urge to vomit. “Am I meant to believe that you wouldn’t do such a thing if I cooperated with your master?”_

_“Ssswear yourself to Him and I will not touch your precious brother. Deny Him and your brother is mine.” The creature’s saw-toothed smile broadened. “He will be deliciousss.”_

_“You will not lay a hand on my brother,” Siath said, voice trembling._

_“Ssswear.” The Witch King drew closer._

_Siath stepped back. “Get away from me, you filthy creature. Either let your master appear to me, or let none appear at all. I have no patience for your sick threats or vile humor. Leave me.”_

_More clicking laugher sent a shiver down his spine. “Sssiath.”_

_“Leave me,” he demanded._

_“Remember my promissse,” the witch hissed._

_With another swirl of silver the creature disappeared, leaving Siath alone in his vision of the locker, cold and shaking with anger and fear. He had to escape; had to return to his body and warn his brother that the Sea-Witch King was back in Armathian waters._

_If only he could figure out how._

…

Around the time she reached her majority, Ehrin came to understand that being a pretty woman was only advantageous in certain contexts. It made her life easier in many ways, but often worked against her when it truly mattered. She was frequently asked, on trips to local apothecaries, what such a ‘pretty little lass’ would know about a thing like medicine. Some patrons claimed it was bad luck to have a woman aboard, or protested when it became clear to them that her role was not confined to the galley. ‘Pretty’ was alright, but Ehrin would have much rather been strong, or tall, or possessed of enchantment.

Yet she, like all people, had been dealt a certain hand in life, and knew better than to rail against a system or wish for a different world. She had been playing Ante since she was a little girl, and the first rule of Ante was that you had to win with the hand that you were dealt.

“Well of course, Miss Ehrin, and it’s mighty kind of you to bring a treat for a lonely soldier,” the guard said, eyeing both Ehrin and the spice cake appreciatively.

Being pretty served her in one way, and one way alone: bribery. And when it came to bribes, she was _Windjammer_ ’s reigning champion.

“I know what the food at the fort is like. I hope you like spice cakes,” she said, passing through the now-unlocked gate to the fort’s prison cells. Another thing she had learned over the years was never to use a pretty face to leverage a favor without offering something tangible in return; things tended to end badly, otherwise.

“You’re certain you don’t want company down there? I have it on authority that he’s a dangerous man,” the guard offered.

“Oh no,” she dismissed, “that won’t be necessary. He’s behind bars, isn’t he?”

“Alright then Miss Ehrin, you just call if you need anything and I’ll be there in a blink.”

“I’m sure,” she smiled before gliding down the steps into a long corridor peppered with cells on each side.

Some of the cells were occupied; most of the prisoners were in their bunks, else staring blankly at the walls. She ignored a few whistles and vulgar remarks, walking until she stood almost at the end of the row.

The cell she stopped in front of was cramped and empty except for the small pallet pushed against the far corner, a neglected food tray, and the Commodore. Félix sat upon the pallet, long legs stretched out, head tipped back to rest against the rough stone wall. He couldn’t have been sleeping in that position, yet he didn’t move to acknowledge the presence of another outside his cell. With a sinking feeling she realized that he must be accustomed to the sounds of others prowling outside his cell; as an enemy officer with valuable information, he would have many visitors.

“ _Hello_ ,” she said, the Belenese word feeling awkward in her mouth.

Félix’s eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly, regarding her with a wary stare. “Why have they sent you?”

“They? Who?” she asked, puzzled.

“The Admiral.”

“Admiral Francis? What does he have to do with anything?” She watched Félix’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Oh. Do you think I’m here to get information from you? _Fángon_ , as if that would work. All those weeks on _Windjammer,_ and you spent most of it ignoring me like a piece of furniture.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I don’t rightly know. I didn’t like the thought of you down here day in, day out without anyone putting a decent meal in you.” She sneered down at the untouched gruel on his tray. “I should have figured you would go the way of the hunger strike rather than eat _that_.”

“You should be busy with your crew,” he frowned.

Ehrin turned away from the cell. “Well, alright then. I can understand why you wouldn’t want me here, as a reminder of your time aboard _Windjammer_. I’ll go.”

“No,” Félix protested, surging forward until he stood at the cell door. Ehrin froze mid-stride. “Stay. _Good afternoon, Ehrin. It is a pleasure to see you_.”

Ehrin frowned, looking down at the floor. “No idea what you just said, sorry. J—Arden left some of his books aboard until he has the time to fetch them, and I found the one on your language, but I’ve barely gotten through the first pages.”

“I said ‘good afternoon’. _Good afternoon_. It is afternoon, is it not?”

“It is,” she said before trying out the Westernese phrase. Her pronunciation was awkward, but intelligible.

“We use some Dramorian consonants,” he offered.

“I don’t speak Dramorian, so that’s not so helpful. Thanks, though. _Good afternoon_.”

“Why learn?”

“It’ll probably be useful to know before all of this is over,” she answered. At Félix’s scowl she rolled her eyes. “For Ranael’s sake I’m not here to pry information out of you. Here, look, I even brought you some of those spice cakes you like so much.”

She passed her bundle through the iron bars. He took it gently, unwrapping one of the topmost cloths to reveal a still-warm cake. “More kindness,” he murmured.

“Go on,” she encouraged, “you must be starving, with what they feed you here. You were thin enough as it was.”

Félix’s stomach gave a traitorous rumble. In defiance he broke off a small piece, intending to make a show of appearing unhurried. Ehrin’s quiet giggle made it clear that he wasn’t fooling either of them. The stifled groan of pleasure he made as soon as the morsel passed his lips only made her giggle louder.

“No point pretending it isn’t good, Félix; we both know they call me the Lady of the Galley for a reason.”

“Hm,” he grunted, aware that the noise sounded more exultant than austere.

“When was the last time you ate, anyway?”

“Morning after we arrived.” Another bite. Bliss.

“Gods, Félix – that was _days_ ago!”

“I will not eat this,” he nudged the bowl of gruel with a toe, “until I must.”

“And to think, you threw my stew into the bilge, yet this remains untouched,” she remarked.

“I threw it the third day. The guards did not like it.”

“They beat you?” she asked.

“I am a prisoner. That is my lot.”

“It wasn’t so on _Windjammer_. I’m sure Prince Valory would not condone such a thing either. That is, I know he has interrogated you in the past, but to give you the cane for your petulance, well—”

“Your Prince does not dirty his hands.”

Ehrin frowned. “He _wouldn’t_. It simply isn’t how enemy officers are treated, even during war. The board yes, but not beaten like an animal.”

Félix let out a long sigh, leaning his head against the iron bars of the cell. A few tufts of curly dark hair poked out between them. “I know this.”

“Do you really? Do you really understand that it wasn’t our intention aboard _Windjammer_ to cause pain? That none of us were the monsters you made us out to be?” she pressed.

“The Prince . . . the Prince is a strong opponent. How do you say that – an enemy worth doing battle with?”

“A worthy adversary?”

“Yes. That. No more. Not a monster – a man. A man who is on the other side.”

“Good,” Ehrin breathed. She could live with that.

“But you . . . I did not think you were a monster.”

“Then what am I?” she asked.

Félix raised his gaze from the small parcel of cakes to meet her eyes. “I do not know.”

They stared at one another in silence for a few heartbeats, broken only by the voice of the guard ringing down the hall, startling them both. “Miss Ehrin, are you alright?”

“Fine! Coming,” she called back. Lowering her voice, she rushed, “Hide the rest of those cakes; they can’t know I’m feeding you. The guard thinks I’m here on Lord Arden’s orders, so let’s keep it that way. I’ll try to get back here in a few days with something more. If you’d like, that is.”

“Yes.”

“Alright, then,” she said. “ _Good afternoon_.”

“Ehrin.” She stopped halfway through the turn. He reached an arm out through the bars, letting it hang there, hesitating. “I am glad you came.” She clasped it.

“Miss Ehrin?” the guard called again.

“Me too,” she whispered before pulling back, spinning, and disappearing down the corridor.


	18. Chapter 18

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 20; 2421_

Throughout his tenure as High Steward, Miran had whiled away many an hour within the confines of the palace library, researching and studying in order to better serve his King and country. It was, therefore, expected that he would spend an afternoon or two brushing up on Westernese politics following _Windjammer_ ’s arrival. Busy though he was, he found himself treading into the archives in search of any references regarding the tributary system between Dramor and Belen. His meticulous search brought him into the furthest corners of the library; dark corners that had gathered layers of dust through years of disuse. Miran was so absorbed in his quest that he was nearly upon Arden’s isolated little nook when he finally saw him.

Miran’s enchantment was not particularly strong, but Arden had learned its feel though self-defense many long years earlier. The hair rose along the nape of his neck the moment his father drew near. Miran, on the other hand, was so involved in his perusal of titles that he didn’t look up until he was well within Arden’s territory.

Only an immense amount of self-control kept him from jumping. Arden’s favored chair had remained empty for the entirety of his absence, almost as if it were lying in wait for its rightful occupant to return. Seeing him there now, perched in the spot he had favored as a young man, was a shock to Miran’s system. This new Arden, however, seemed a far cry from the sullen boy who had once claimed the corner for his own.

 “Back to your old haunt, I see,” Miran said, tone measured.

“It has always suited my purpose,” Arden replied, gesturing to the large desk that flanked the space.

Miran surveyed the stacks of books crowing the tabletop. It seemed as though his son had searched the shelves for every single volume that made mention of sea-witches. They were in the library on similar business, then.

“What, no Kilcoranian poetry?” It had always been a sore point between them.

Arden resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “The situation in Ithaka makes the importance of literary pursuits pale in comparison. I am doing research for my Lord Valory.”

“On sea-witches?”

“It is germane to the council’s discussion on offensive strategy.”

Miran took a moment to study the man who stood before him, so different from the boy whose place he had taken. With a heavy heart he was forced to acknowledge that Valory had been right; Arden made a better Steward than the other candidates – even Edmund. Nothing on Ranael’s blue waters could have convinced Edmund to partake in a task as tedious as research; not even if such a thing were demanded by his position.

Arden stood his ground, levelly returning the stare. Miran, for the first time, admitted that Arden was the sort of man that a father could be proud of. He frowned. What claim did he have to this stone-eyed, brilliant man before him? Arden had not become an admirable man under his tutelage, no. He had grown into the man he was far away from Armathia, far away from his family’s influence. Miran’s lip curled. Did his son seek praise and approval as he always had, or did he seek to delight in Miran’s failure?

Miran knew he had failed his youngest son. Arden had been a different sort, a difficult sort; born in his mother’s likeness, with his mother’s sensibilities, and with a brilliance that far outshone either of his parents. How was Miran to know that the difficult, disagreeable adolescent would turn into the sort of man that Prince Valory would covet for a Steward?

Seeing his son again felt akin to thawing a limb that had long since frozen over. It was a relief, yet it stung terribly. Arden had ever served as a reminder of his missteps and shortcomings; that would doubly be the case now.

“Prince Valory’s report mentions that you fought the witches at his side,” Miran said, nodding towards the cutlass slung low on Arden’s hip.

“That is true.”

“With _that_?”

“It is a sailor’s weapon of choice.”

“It is a toy compared to the broadsword.”

Arden marked and lowered the volume he had been reading with a sigh, shuffling around notes taken in his painstakingly precise script. “Perhaps, but I am a sailor, not a knight. I trained to fight in close quarters. For that, my weapon is ideal.”

“You were trained—”

“What, as a cavalryman?” Arden asked, brows raised. “I remember. I was there.”

“Captain Bertrand always had choice words regarding your swordsmanship,” Miran remarked.

“Bertrand was a megalomaniacal dolt who found a way to institutionalize the pleasure he got from torturing others,” Arden snapped.

“He was a brute, but at least he knew his trade.”

“If the implication is that I wield my cutlass like a glorified machete, I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I’m rather proficient.”

“Yet you made as though you weren’t,” Miran mused.

“What, back before I left? Do you think I did that on purpose, shamming in order to avoid deployment like a coward?”

“I suppose it would have been hard to fake such incompetence.”

“Then what, do you think that I learned how to wield a blade after I left as a matter of spite?” Arden asked.

“If duty and honor were not enough for you as a cavalryman, I have trouble imagining what else would have motivated a boy who made a terrible racket about the relative merits of pens and swords.”

“Is it really so hard for you to see that I sought to do right by you?” Arden asked, voice tight.

“You showed that impulse in a peculiar way, if you did indeed feel it,” Miran scoffed.

“I am different than Verne and Conrad. We are brothers, but we are not one in the same.” Arden’s voice dropped. “You sent me to the cavalry as _punishment._ And for what, because Illen did not make me in your image, as she did my brothers?”

Miran’s expression grew thunderous at his son’s words. “I sent you to the cavalry because you were a rebellious deviant. Have you no memory of what was being said about our House thanks to your haughty refusal of military service? I despaired of having sired a lily-livered son; despair which was only confirmed by Captain Bertrand’s reports of your uncooperative nature.”

“Uncooperative?” Arden hissed. “The man was a buffoon: impatient, dull-witted, and possessed of a signature that could have curdled milk. I told you as much, but I supposed it was easier for you to believe the words of an arse-kissing Captain over the claims of your own Gods-damned son!”

“Murdock—”

“Was a sniveling coward who would rather condemn me than admit his mistake and risk losing your favor. You believed every lie those bastards churned out because they confirmed the situation as you wanted to see it. You were like the blind leading the blind!” Arden roared.

“Lower your voice,” Miran snapped.

“Admit it,” Arden demanded. “Admit that you set me up to fail, then punished me when I did. Admit that you refused to acknowledge my latent talent because you were too proud to believe that Illen would give the greatest gift to the son who did not walk in your likeness.”

“This display of yours is becoming indecorous,” Miran warned.

“What, afraid the councilors will hear? Afraid that they will learn that you had Bertrand ship me off to the Border when you both knew that I couldn’t strike a killing blow with my own weapon? Afraid that they will learn you sent your own son to _die_?” Arden’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Silence!” Miran snarled.

“Twenty years have come and gone since then,” Arden said, voice rough and shaky. “Do you still think me so worthless that the only honor I might find is in bloody battlefield martyrdom? I think I’ve turned out better than that.”

Miran shook with anger, color high in his cheeks. “Such impudence is unbecoming. Remember who it is you are addressing.”

Arden’s features hardened. “I remember all too well.” Slowly, deliberately, he turned his back, picking up his quill and resuming his note taking. “Now if you will excuse me, Father, I am meant to finish this work before council tomorrow morning.”

Miran took a step back, reeling with the audacious dismissal. For a moment he had caught a glimpse of the son he remembered: angry, wounded, weak with need of approval and affection. It went as quickly as it came, however, leaving a cold, efficient man in its wake.

Arden didn’t wait for him to leave before he sat again, bending his head over his texts. Miran stared at the silvered scars decorating the nape of his neck. Here was the man who had battled the Sea-Witch King and lived to tell the tale. Here was the man who had become a respected officer, loyal subject, and fearsome adversary.

Miran turned, striding out of the library without another word. What confused him the most was not that his son had become a new man in his absence. Rather, he couldn’t fathom how, in some ways, his son was exactly the same. Miran had always tried to hide his own weaknesses, with overall success. Arden, on the other hand, acknowledged and transformed his weaknesses until they could be counted amongst his strengths.

Miran left the library with the sinking feeling that in a test of will, he would cave long before his son even felt the strain. He wished he could take credit for it. He knew he couldn’t. There was nothing harsher than being confronted with the depths of such a catastrophic mistake.

He had gravely underestimated his son.

It wouldn’t happen again.

…

“I had never before given much thought to what it must be like to live without an enchantment,” Persephone said, addressing her youngest without turning around.

“You’re blaming your abstinence from visions for our troubles. You shouldn’t,” he replied, shutting the door behind him and crossing the room in two long strides.

“The council follows my leadership only because they think me far-Seeing. They don’t seem to realize that I remain as in the dark as they, lest the creature that has your brother come for me as well.”

Valory sank into the empty seat at Siath’s bedside, reaching out to take his mother’s bony hand between his own. “I know it bothers you to puzzle through the connections between the witches and Westernese without the aid of your talent.”

“It bothers me that I cannot help. I don’t know what he is Seeing. I don’t even know if he is suffering,” Persephone said, laying her free hand on her older son’s brow. She tenderly brushed his hair away from his face, avoiding the silvering at his temples. “I cannot protect my boy. How do the unenchanted live with such a feeling of helplessness?”

“I suppose having not known power, they don’t feel its absence,” he mused. “You aren’t the only one who feels as though you should be doing more to help him.”

Persephone gave him an appraising look. “The other day you mentioned that you had noticed another aspect of your enchantment. Are you referring to that?”

“Arden informed me that I had a second talent during our time on _Windjammer_. Truth be told I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know.”

“You are a Healer as well,” she said.

He furrowed his brow. “Did you See that?”

“I had a rather puzzling vision some months back that involved you laying your hands upon an injured man. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when you said you had made such a discovery, it connected.”

“You didn’t know I had a second?”

“I didn’t suspect. I’ve heard others complain about your signature, but it never occurred to me to examine why yours was so volatile. I have always left it up to you to decide whether and how to use your talent. That is as it should be.”

“Master Lawrence is of the same opinion; he waited years for me to say something. I doubt he’s the only one. To think, all of this time I could have been developing it, honing it . . . perhaps if I were more practiced, I might have been able to do something for Siath.”

“Don’t say such things, darling,” she shook her head. “There is no use in wondering ‘what if’.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Persephone let out a long breath of air. After a few moments of silence, she said, “I wish the witch had taken my mind instead, and left your brother alone.”

“You and I suffer the same regrets, Mother. I would gladly switch place with him. Oceana needs him far more.”

“The Queen in me finds that a noble statement, but you know I couldn’t endure seeing you this way either, love,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

Valory hung his head. “You have endured much of late, and most of it alone.”

“Don’t feel guilty for arranging to be away from Armathia when your father passed. I don’t blame you for not wanting to see him waste away. It was a sad thing, at the end, to watch a proud man brought so low.”

“How could you bear it?” Valory asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I have a bit of my own father’s strength in me. You’ve got that same sort of strength yourself, love. Your brother may be the knight, but you are the harder between you.”

“Yet I could not bring myself to sit at Father’s side as he went to meet Illen.”

“That was not your role; it was mine. I am his wife. I was made Queen. Sometimes I think I was born for it. Rest assured it is not a role for the weak.”

“I’d never call you weak, Mother.”

“Yet look at me, doddering old fool that I am, shedding tears at your brother’s bedside when I should be hatching some brilliant scheme to save Ithaka.”

“The heart does not make one weak, no matter what Lord Miran likes to think. You have done an admirable job with the council thus far,” Valory said, pressing her hand.

“I’m glad you think that I am doing our House proud. Still, I long to cede this role to your brother.”

“We will get him back.”

Persephone claimed one of Siath’s still hands. She threaded fingers with each of her boys, just as she had done the few times illness had left them both bedridden as children. “I want to believe that. I have to.”

“Arden has some theories. He has spent nearly every waking hour this past week lost in research. If any can find a way around the machinations of the Witch King, it is he.”

“I know,” she murmured. “Your man requested an audience with me two days past.”

“Did he?” Valory asked, surprised. Arden hadn’t mentioned anything to him. “Regarding Siath’s condition?”

“He asked some very detailed questions about the nature of our visions. I rather admired his pluck in going straight to the source, propriety be hanged. He was very polite, of course, but rather unapologetically direct. Very much a Steward.”

“Do you think I made the right choice?”

“He told you of my vision, did he not?  I _know_ you made the right choice.”

“Miran did not think so,” Valory pointed out.

“His judgment is clouded in that aspect. He has never thought clearly where his youngest was concerned. That he would hold out against his own intuition and suggest Edmund as Steward is more than proof of that.”

“Absurd, wasn’t it?” Valory sighed.

“Terribly sad,” Persephone agreed, petting the back of Siath’s limp hand.

“Is all of this because of Arianna?”

Persephone pressed her lips together. “I couldn’t say, darling. Miran keeps all such sentiment locked away in a walled-up compartment in his heart. I would wager that the late Lady Arianna is the root, but perhaps not the cause.”

“Did you know that Miran never spoke about her? Verne’s stories are all Arden has of his mother.”

Persephone could hear the reproach in her son’s tone of voice. “I could tell that he wanted to ask about her, but refrained in the name of keeping his audience professional. Admirable restraint.”

“Yes,” Valory murmured, considering her words. “What do you think of him?”

She could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. “Different than I remember.”

“That seems to be the general opinion, yes.”

“He’s a good sort. He’ll make a fine Steward; he already has.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

A sly smile pulled at Persephone’s lips. “You are very well-matched, I think.”

“Is that your blessing?”

“I gave it to your man the night you arrived, did I not?” she asked.

“It is good to hear it from your lips.”

Persephone sighed. “Darling – I have always known that these matters would be hard for you, and it hurts my heart to think that you might suffer because of the nature that Illen gave you. I’m thankful you’ve found this bit of joy, but you can’t blame me for wishing things were easier for you.”

“Is that what Father thought as well?”

“I don’t know, love. You know he didn’t serve in the military as you and your brother did; he was rarely out of the inner city. I don’t think he ever met a man with preferences like yours – at least, not one who was open about it.”

“He thought it was below my station to prefer the company of men. As if I could control it,” Valory frowned. “Conrad once asked me whether the agreement with Lady Sybina was punishment. I couldn’t answer him.”

Persephone bowed her head. “Your father was not a monster, Valory. He didn’t understand the difficulty of the position an engagement would put you in, but he wanted the best for you. He thought he was granting you a great opportunity.”

“If only that were the case.”

“If nothing else, your father gave you the ability to have a family. Come to me when you are holding your firstborn child in your arms and tell me it is punishment then,” she replied. “You and your brother are the best thing I have ever done.”

Valory watched his brother’s still form for several long moments. “Do you suppose Siath would have made the same decision for me?”

“I don’t know that he could have, love. You will pay a dear price for fatherhood, and I’m not sure your brother has it in him to cause you such distress. I am proud of his compassion, but he would have made a grave error in excusing you from your duties. Anaphe needs you.”

“Of course.”

“He will approve of your Steward, though. Of that I have no doubt,” she smiled. Valory did not miss the hopeful lilt to her voice.

“Yet I will be a married man.”

Persephone squeezed his hand. “One must take joy where one can, darling.”

“And if I am found out?”

She glanced up at her son, features stern. “You shan’t be.”

“You Saw that?”

“No: it is a mere statement of fact. You shan’t be, because you know what is at risk. You know how careful you must be.”

Valory sighed. “I fear that all of the tiptoeing will poison this good thing I have found.”

“Your situation is difficult, but not impossible. I would be far more grieved if the opposite were true.”

“I would I weren’t promised.”

“Oh, but now you are asking for a perfect world, love. That, I cannot give you. I’m afraid you must be content with what you have. As must we all.”

“It’ll be a moot point anyway, if we can’t overturn the usurpers at Elona,” Valory muttered darkly. “Whoever is behind this, whoever has brought the Witch King into this . . . they will rue the day they lifted a finger against Oceana. When Arden and I find out who had this done to my brother I will annihilate him so thoroughly that history won’t even remember his name.”

“Siath will most likely aim for a more diplomatic approach,” Persephone said.

“He can send as many diplomatic envoys as he likes. If Dramor is at the heart of this, I swear I will tear up that desert with my own bare hands.”

“The two of you have always been this way: he, the one willing to forgive the wrongs done against him. You, seeing red at the very idea. Siath, the willow that bends in the wind. You, the immutable force. He will recover, you will destroy his captor. He will thank you, you will brood about how you might have done better,” she said, patting his knee.

“Is that so?”

“Of course it is. I know the both of you; I’m your _mother_. As I said, you’ve always been this way. Don’t you remember the incident with the former Admiral’s son?”

Valory frowned. “What, that little tyrant of a boy who imagined himself well above his station?”

“Then you must remember the time he and his friends held your brother down in the courtyard and shoved mud in his trousers.”

“Siath wouldn’t identify his tormentors,” Valory murmured, the memory coming back to him. “He knew the punishment would have far outstripped the crime and stayed silent as a result. How did you figure out it was the Admiral’s boy?”

Persephone’s lips twitched. “Two days later, the boy came running into the garden where I took tea with the other ladies of station. He was sobbing and covered in excrement. He claimed that he had been playing alone in his family’s garden when a chamber pot fell out of the sky and hit him in the back of his head. He must have been unconscious for some time, because some of the . . . contents of the pot had since stuck and dried. Dreadful.”

Valory coughed. “How peculiar.”

“Later that night I overheard you whisper something to your brother that sounded suspiciously like _‘I’m sorry it took so long’_ , shortly followed by _‘You’ll be needing a new pot. Sorry about that, too._ ’ Siath was horrified, but rather secretly pleased that you would do such a thing on his behalf. A perfect little Regent, even at age eleven.”

The cathedral bells began to ring, tolling out the hour. They both sighed, getting back to their feet and composing themselves before council. Valory felt as though he had been doing little other than sit through council over the past few days. He wasn’t sure he could take much more. He longed to be on his way to Ithaka.

“Would you give me a moment, Mother? I’ll be along shortly,” he said.

“Of course, love. I’ll wait outside,” she said, shutting the door softly behind her.

Valory moved to kneel at his brother’s bedside once more, covering one of Siath’s still hands with his own. He swallowed against the lump that rose in his throat. “I don’t know if you heard a word that Mother and I said, but if you did, you know that we’re not letting the Witch King win so easily – and neither will you. You have to fight this. You have to fight _him_ , so you can come back to us. Oceana needs you. I need you.” He let out a long breath. “I was born to be a Regent, not a King. I’ll do you proud in Elona, brother, but you have to come back. Mother and I cannot do this alone.”

…

Although the inner city square was open to the public, its location at the center of the uppermost level tended to skew its occupants towards the wealthier side. Holidays, during which large crowds would make their way through the gates to partake in the inner city’s festivities, were the exception that proved the rule. Day-to-day, the only lowborn who bothered with the arduous climb were on their way to the cathedral in order to beg a special favor of the Gods; Armathians were certain that praying at the cathedral’s altars made it easier to catch their ears. Valory fell prey to this superstition himself, and was on his way to the altars when he ran into Imran and Gabriel.

The immense inner city square was sectioned off into parts: tree-lined patios for resting, lawns for play and relaxation, fountain-dotted gardens for quiet meetings and contemplation. In some places one could see clearly across from one side to the other, but the gardens of the square boasted many little nooks that remained hidden from the plazas outside the palace and cathedral. Rather than skirt around the square as many did when in a hurry, Valory chose a shady, meandering path through swaths of verdant gardens. It was along this path that he encountered his two men, perched upon the edge of a small fountain, tossing petty change into its depths and making outrageous wishes.

Gabriel was in a rare jovial mood. “Here’s wishing that the tavern on the third level serves my favorite pork buns tonight,” he said, flicking a coin into the water.

“That, if you two insist on taking me to the tavern, I do not end the night wearing my ale,” Imran added, tossing a coin of his own.

“That I catch the eye of a pretty barmaid,” Gabe added. His coin landed with a gentle splash.

“That she takes you to hers so Little and I do not have to listen to your caterwauling.” Plink.

“I do _not_ caterwaul,” Gabriel protested, laughing at Imran’s flash of a smile.

“Perhaps not – but the two midshipmen down the hall do. Let us hope they take their business outside the fort tonight,” he sniffed, flicking another coin at the fountain.

“Oh, _those_ two. The short one is nice enough, but the other has an enchantment that’s just . . .” Gabriel made a face. After a moment he cocked his head, almost as if he were listening for something. He started, turning around and staring right at Valory.

“Did you just hear me thinking?” Valory asked, stepping forward to join them. Imran and Gabe rose to their feet.

“No sir, I never can in Armathia; you’re always so closed off. I realized that I was feeling your enchantment,” he said, clasping arms with his commander.

“And how are both of you, lack of sleep thanks to your noisy neighbors notwithstanding?” Valory asked, clasping Imran’s arm in turn.

“Well enough, sir,” Gabe said as Imran replied,

“Bored. Why have we received no orders?”

“There are none to give. The council is stalling. The certainty of a conflict with witches has Admiral Francis frothing at the mouth, of course, but the others are balking at the idea,” Valory answered. “That said, they’re coming around. I expect you will get your orders by the week’s end.”

“Arrar be praised,” Imran muttered.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to the fort myself,” Valory added.

“No sir – don’t be,” Gabriel assured him. “Your messages have kept us updated on the situation in the palace. That said, I would like to take the opportunity to extend both our condolences and congratulations in person.”

“Thank you. Please keep the first bit quiet, though.”

“Of course,” Gabriel nodded. “We were happy to hear about Lord Steward Arden, though his brother’s death is a terrible tragedy.”

“Indeed,” Imran nodded.

“Conrad will be missed terribly, but Arden has stepped up to fill his role. His oath was a bit of a scene; I wish you could have been there.”

Imran smirked. “He informed us. It is a good story.”

“You’ve seen him?” Valory asked.

“Just this morning in the ring. He wears his colors with pride,” Imran said. “I bested him, but it was not easy. He brought much anger into battle.”

Valory pursed his lips. “Where is he now?”

“We exchanged a few words before he went off to work on his marksmanship. I could hardly believe he had the energy left after his bout with Imran,” Gabriel said.

“You did not know his whereabouts?” Imran questioned, eyebrow raised.

Valory shrugged, acknowledging the undertone in Imran’s words. “Things are good between us, for which I am glad, but I sensed he needed some time to himself today. Council was a bit of an imbroglio this morning: Francis nearly had it out with the treasurer over the money he needs to mobilize the navy, Miran got into a shouting match with the Captain of the Guard, Lord Lester continues to act the part of the petulant child regarding Arden’s appointment . . . and so it went.”

“Is Lester giving disrespect to Lord Arden?” Imran glowered.

Valory took a moment to appreciate the fact that Arden had already managed to inspire loyalty and respect in his notoriously aloof Lieutenant. “No, but he’s being uncooperative in the extreme. Arden is frustrated by the situation. Lester aside, every councilor fancies himself an expert, yet none of them have anything worthwhile to contribute.”

“Lord Arden is a tactician. He should lead these meetings,” Imran said. Valory heard the unspoken _‘and you should back his opinions’_ at the end of Imran’s sentence.

“Arden is still finding his feet. I don’t think his efforts were much rewarded when he spoke in council as a young man. He has been silent unless called upon for over a week.”

“Whatever for?” Gabriel mused.

A slow, pleased smile spread across Imran’s face. “He is playing the part of the desert-snake. He lies in wait and listens. When the time is right he will strike. That is how he pledged his fealty, is it not?”

Valory nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re right. I only wish he weren’t so irritated by the whole process.” Gabriel stifled a laugh. Valory raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t need to use my enchantment to know you well enough to see that you are far nearer to cracking skulls than he is. Were you headed to the ring yourself?”

Valory gave a rueful shrug. “To the cathedral, actually, to beg the Gods for patience. You aren’t wrong.”

“You may soon need to beg their forgiveness as well,” Imran said, nodding towards two approaching figures. A quiet noise of frustration escaped Valory’s throat as he turned, catching sight of Edmund and Sybina. He couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to see less.

Edmund wouldn’t miss an opportunity to push his daughter’s company on Valory, of course, so they turned off of their original path through the garden in order to pass the fountain.

“Good afternoon, my Lord,” Edmund called, hailing them as he approached. “Officers,” he added as an afterthought.

General pleasantries were exchanged all around, though the greeting between Edmund and Imran was terse. After issuing the minimum required politeness to the soldiers, Edmund turned to Valory and proceeded to carry on as though they weren’t present.

“Tense council today, no? I was just regaling my daughter with an anecdote about the Admiral’s legendary temper. Rather volatile, isn’t he?”

“I imagine I would be just as frustrated if the treasurer denied me the resources I required to properly outfit my men,” Valory replied.

Edmund laughed as though they were sharing some sort of private joke. Indicating Imran, he said, “Well, with this one hardly needing a drink even during the hottest stretches, I imagine your provisioning needs are far more modest.”

Imran bristled beside him at the implied insult. Valory struggled to keep his tone light. “I’d like to think I look after his interests a sight better than that, as he is my second-in-command.”

“Is he?” Edmund seemed surprised, though Valory couldn’t tell whether or not it was affected.

“Does it surprise my Lord that a man with Dramorian ancestry has risen in rank?” Imran asked sardonically.

“Only that the Prince would keep a son of Garo in his close confidences,” Edmund countered.

“What, you question my loyalty?” Dropping the honorific said more than any of Imran’s words could.

“How dare you address me so,” Edmund reeled.

“Gentlemen – please,” Valory interrupted. He knew that the two men disliked one another, but this was absurd.

“Control your Dramorian spy, my Lord,” Edmund continued.

“Duke Edmund, I’m sure Lieutenant Imran would appreciate being called by his title as much as you,” Valory pointed out.

“That Dramorian has no right to an Oceanic title,” Edmund seethed.

Imran snorted. “Listen to this ‘pure-blooded’ man of Oceana make such a claim in his country’s defense. How noble.”

“My Lord, your man has impugned my honor and that of my d—”

“If truth can bring you dishonor, then yes, I have. Go on, mock my heritage again, Oeman,” Imran sneered, using the Dramorian form of the Duke’s name. “What is it these Oceanic say about pots and kettles?”

“Like a pot calling a kettle black,” Gabe supplied.

“Or white, in this case. You are paler than I,” Imran finished.

Edmund recoiled. It was true: although they shared the same skin tone, even Imran received the slightest hint of color from spending so much time in the sun. Edmund’s lifestyle, however, had caused his complexion to take on a nearly deathly pallor. He gaped, shocked by the severity of the insult. Sybina frowned.

“Duke Edmund, forgive my Lieutenant’s impertinence,” Valory sighed.

Edmund, nearly trembling with fury, shook his head. “Good day, my Lord.” He turned on his heel, striding away from the fountain, barely-contained rage evident in every step.

Sybina glanced back and forth between her father and Valory, a concerned look upon her face. “Father was meant to escort me to the palace gardens, but I suppose he will need some time.”

“Apologies, Lady Sybina. I can serve as your escort if you like,” Valory said. “I was planning on going to the cathedral, if you would rather stop there first.”

Sybina’s pretty frown deepened. “No my Lord, I said my prayers some hours ago,” she replied.

“I will take you to the gardens then. Lieutenant Imran?”

“Yes sir?” Imran raised his head defiantly.

Valory let out a long breathe of air. “We will speak of this later.”

“Yes sir.”

“Come Sybina, I do not wish to detain you any further,” he said, offering his arm to his betrothed.

“It is no hardship,” my Lord,” she smiled, slipping her arm through his.

Imran and Gabe bid their farewells and watched them go. It was no surprise to either soldier that Valory picked the most direct path towards the palace gates. Once the couple was out of eyesight, Imran and Gabe sunk back down onto the fountain’s ledge.

“You’ll get a dressing down for that,” Gabe pointed out.

“The man deserved no less. Valory knows this,” Imran defended.

“He puts an awful lot of effort into keeping the Anaphean nobility happy, Imran. I hope your bruised pride did not just serve to make matters more difficult for him.”

Imran grunted. “That Dramorian maggot had no right to speak such things.”

“I know that, but sometimes I think you would be better off if you held your tongue,” Gabriel sighed.

“He gave insult with words that described him just as well. I would rather take a dressing down than let such a thing go.”

“Yes, pot and kettle, I know. It is not an uncommon tactic amongst members of the Armathian nobility, if Arden’s grumblings about hypocrisy are to be believed.”

“I do not like Edmund,” Imran said. “I do not see why he is tolerated.”

“He has many followers in Anaphe. He has spread a lot of wealth around the peninsula, and has done much to keep the city stable since the last rebellion.”

“His family made trouble for Oceana. He is trying to distance himself from them in our minds.”

“His father, you mean? I think I remember hearing something about that – how his father was part of the network of spies he turned in when he came to Armathia.”

“And he was not suspected?” Imran asked.

“I think he was, but was later exonerated. This was before my time, though – you’d have to ask Val.”

“Hm.”

“Either way, he may not be very pleasant, but,” Gabe shrugged, “I suppose you and he have a little bit in common.”

Imran bristled. “Do not make such comparisons. I did not turn on my family. I did not see my father hung.”

“His father was a traitor to the crown. If Edmund is as Oceanic at heart as he claims, we can’t fault him for that.”

Imran grunted. “Turning on the rebels in his family gave him power here he would not have had in Dramor. His grandfather was a vassal – of my family, to be precise.”

“Is that why he called you ‘son of Garo’?”

“Yes. His father took orders from mine during the rebellions that happened after Oceana reconquered Anaphe.”

“And he hates you for it, it seems,” Gabriel shrugged.

“I do not like him, either.”

“You’re taking the thoughtless words of a nobleman very personally, you know.”

“ _He_ made this thing personal,” Imran defended. “We must watch him.”

“What, do you think he’s scheming?”

“He tried for the Stewardship.”

“So did Alec and Lester,” Gabe replied.

“Yes,” Imran agreed, “neither of them are trustworthy, either. Especially not Lester. Valory thinks he may have left information out of his dispatches.”

Gabriel let out a long sigh. “If you’re worried about such schemes, we’re going to have our work cut out for us. I don’t know a nobleman in all of Armathia who isn’t up to no good in one way or another.”

“I will keep an eye on those with ties to Dramor. Unless you see their thoughts?”

“I cannot,” Gabriel admitted.

“Then they are plotting something.”

“No Imran, that’s not how it works,” Gabriel corrected. “Politicians and courtiers are all the same, especially ones who’ve spent any time around Armathia. They learn to guard their minds at a very young age.”

“You can read Valory.”

“Only when he lets me,” Gabe said. “On duty he does, for obvious reasons. Not here, though. None of the councilors do – nor does the Queen, nor do the Stewards. Arden was utterly impenetrable this morning, but that didn’t surprise me.”

“His family has many Empaths.”

“That’s most likely why. He has practice.”

“I thought there were not so many of you.”

“You’re right; Empathetic enchantments are the rarest – the Stewards are considered an oddity because so many of them develop that sort of talent. Some think that Illen bestows it upon them so they might better serve the House of Kings.”

“You are more powerful than they,” Imran pointed out.

“Yes, but telepathic talent is very, very rare. Even mine isn’t that strong; it would take an incredibly powerful telepath to see inside Edmund’s head, for example,” Gabe explained.

“Like the one you met on Kilcoran,” Imran supplied.

“Gods, Imran, I’ve never met anyone who could do that save the Master Empath. He could even mind-speak. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Generations can pass without even the Master Empath developing such an ability. I was trying to keep Rubin out of my head and he just _laughed_.”

“Now you know what it’s like,” Imran grumbled.

Gabriel smiled, patting his friend on the arm. “You’re getting better, you know.”

Imran cocked his head, regarding Gabriel for a long moment. “Is this why you come to the inner city so often?”

“Is what why?”

“It is populated by those whose thoughts are guarded. You get peace.”

Gabriel nodded. “That’s mostly why, yes. It’s nice to have the quiet.”

Imran frowned. “I should leave, then.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t mind your thoughts, Imran – you and Little are my best mates, how could I? They’re like comforting background noise, now. Besides,” he laughed, a boyish sound, “after living with the two of you for a decade, I think true quiet would be unnerving.”

“You Oceanic and your sentimental nature,” Imran grumbled, though Gabriel picked up on the _pleased, relieved, pride_ that rippled through his mind at Gabriel’s words.

“Dreadful, I know,” he smiled.

“My company is not so taxing, then?” Imran ventured.

“Not as taxing as the company Valory is keeping right now,” Gabe grinned. They dissolved into snickers.

…

Gabriel’s words were nothing less than the truth. Valory led Sybina towards the palace at a slow amble, wishing that it wasn’t considered impolite to increase their pace. Sybina had attempted to engage him on the subject of politics, but they started off wrong-footed when she made a remark – parroting her father, no doubt – questioning Lady Fiona’s competence as acting viceroy. Valory’s reply had been terse at best, for which he felt guilty; Sybina’s words were harmless. She was just a young, misinformed girl. It was hardly her fault that her enchantment buzzed in his ears, making him progressively more annoyed and uncomfortable as time passed.

Sensing his annoyance, Sybina dug deep into her repertoire of ‘pleasant, uncontroversial conversation’ and was currently praising the overcast weather in dulcet tones. “I don’t mind this time of year once the rain stops. It’s not quite so hot.”

“Yes that’s an improvement,” he agreed.

“The night gets chilly, even. We’re all so busy at the tailor’s these days, getting fitted for heavier outfits. Last year your mother wore the most beautiful cloak during the midnight procession on the day of Banishment; the hood was lined with fur imported from Saria.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes; the Queen has the most elegant taste, of course. She was wise to commission such a piece; the night was cold enough that we could nearly see our breath.”

“We’ll get cold spells like that during the Season of Peace,” he offered.

“Of course, my Lord. I am accustomed to them, and my father has most graciously allowed me to commission a cloak in the same style as your mother’s,” she said, a happy smile lining her face as they passed through the palace gates.

Valory sighed, rubbing at his temple with his free hand. She was a sweet girl, really. He shouldn’t take his frustration out on her. “A bit warm for Anaphe, a fur-lined cloak.”

She nodded. “I would save it for visits to Armathia. Father says I must get a new wardrobe to prepare for the heat of the peninsula.”

“It can be overwhelming,” he said. Gods, this was excruciating. The buzzing was driving him to distraction, and talking about fashion and weather was not helping matters at all.

“That’s what I have been told. There’s word amongst the tailors that a large shipment of Anaphean fabric is meant to arrive soon, so I am not so worried about having appropriate clothing.”

Valory grunted. “That’s good.”

“I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

Valory started. He glanced over at her, watching her gaze sharpen, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. “I’d hardly say – that is, I didn’t mean to give the impression—”

“It’s alright, my Lord. I hadn’t imagined that you would be as excited about the cloak as I; my father can’t stand to hear about matters of fashion, either. I’m afraid that I’m not performing well this afternoon.”

“Performing well?” he echoed. This was a glimpse of the girl that he hadn’t seen before; quicker and more thoughtful that he had given her credit for.

“The art of the courtier, my Lord. You are not an easy man to talk to.”

Valory let out a snort of amusement. “You’re not the first to say so.”

Her lips curved further upward. “Aside from my father, I have always lacked for male companionship. He will speak politics with me at the breakfast table, but I know that his politics and yours do not align, and I do not wish to displease you as I did earlier.” She let out a sigh. “I’m afraid that experience leaves me little else to draw upon.”

Valory felt an immense swell of gratitude towards her for saying what he had been thinking. “Your honesty is refreshing. Having never been a young woman myself, I find myself facing similar difficulties; I’ve little conversation to draw upon.”

She hid her laugh behind a red, ribbon-bound fan that came up from her side with whip-crack speed. “That is kind of you to say, my Lord, but you need not learn more of women’s hobbies for my sake.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he admitted. “Perhaps you would tell me more about your destination this afternoon, though, so as to avoid talk of either fashion or politics.”

“I imagine you’ll find it as much of a ladies’ pursuit as fashion, my Lord.”

“Ah, but it can’t be any worse than that.”

She hid her smile behind her fan. “Very well, my Lord. I’ve been spending much time in the palace gardens of late. There is a mother cat with a new litter in one of the gazebos, and they are so very sweet and nice to play with.”

“Is that where you’re headed, then?” he inquired, mentally congratulating himself for the feigned polite interest.

“It is,” she nodded, eyes bright with girlish excitement. “Father hates cats so he won’t permit me to take a kitten of my own, but will bring me to play with them when he has the time.” They were nearly upon the garden now; he could already hear the chirping of the birds and murmured conversation of the ladies who often gathered there.

“That’s kind of him.”

“Yes. And you, my Lord?” she asked, “do you like kittens?”

Valory shrugged, unsure whether he had imagined the self-deprecating lilt to her tone. “I have little opinion on the matter. They make fine mousers on board a ship.” A memory of Arden’s cabin aboard _Windjammer_ came to mind. Mizzen used to try to insinuate herself between their twined legs at night, purring with contentment when they would reach down to scratch her behind the ears. Arden had pretended indifference, but it was easy to see how fond he was of the animal. Perhaps he would bring Arden to the gazebo himself, if the sight of the little creatures would cheer him so—

“My Lord?” Sybina asked.

He started; his mind had wandered at the first thought of his Steward. “Forgive me Sybina. I was thinking of _Windjammer_ ’s cat.”

They emerged into the luxurious garden where several courtiers were strolling, enjoying the fine weather. Shyly Sybina asked, “Would you like me to show you where the kittens are, my Lord?”

“As you wish. I cannot tarry, however,” he warned her.

Her mouth flattened. “Your prayers.”

“Just so.”

“The mother cat is just here under this bench,” she said, leading him into the gazebo. Several young women about her age made delighted exclamations at the sight of the Prince, curtseying towards him in greeting. He acknowledged them with a formal bow before Sybina recaptured his attention, pointing towards a shady corner where a calico cat lay contentedly on her side, surrounded by her kittens. Sybina crouched next to them, drawing out a small grey tabby with white paws. He let out a tiny mew and nuzzled into her hand. “This one is my favorite,” she announced.

“It seems you are very fond of him.”

“You must think it silly,” she sighed.

Valory thought of Arden again, and how he would vehemently deny any attachment to Mizzen while at the same time smuggling her scraps of fish from the galley whenever possible. “Not silly, no. If you desire a kitten of your own as a companion, I’m sure we can work something out when we reach Anaphe.”

She beamed at him. “That is kind of you, my Lord.”

“It’s no hardship for me,” he said, swearing he would find her litters of kittens if that’s what it took to keep her occupied. Despite her gentle nature and – he hoped – spark of intelligence, he figured it would take a long while to groom her political viewpoints to no longer resemble her father’s.

“Lady Sybina,” one of the courtiers greeted, stepping forward, “my Lord.” She curtseyed. Once through with the greetings, the young woman gleefully launched into her recitation of the day’s gossip. “Oh Sybina, have you heard the latest?” She dropped her voice – a clear sign that someone’s reputation was about to be maligned. “Lord Alec’s daughter was caught _in the act_. Can you guess with whom?”

“Her betrothed, surely,” Sybina said, petting the kitten gently on the head.

“Not her betrothed. Her _handmaid_ ,” the courtier said, eyes dancing with delight.

Sybina frowned. “And what was her punishment?”

“Hers?” the woman giggled again, fan flapping about her face like a tiny, ribbon-clad bird. “Oh no, nothing. They say the handmaid was flogged and dismissed from her position, though. What a scandal!”

Valory’s stomach turned at the idea that the petty woman was so delighted by the thought of corporal punishment. He was relieved to see the look of disgust on Sybina’s features – until she opened her mouth.

“Father says that such a thing used to be a hanging offence in Anaphe – for the handmaid _and_ for Lord Alec’s daughter. As well it should be. It is an abomination and they both belong in the locker.”

 _Oh, Gods_. “Surely,” he said, “it is not for us to judge the activities that others get up to within their bedrooms. We will all be given to the sea one day, and the Brother and Sister may then decide whether our actions merit punishment.”

The courtiers giggled nervously. He caught sight of the taut frown on Sybina’s face before she bowed her head. “If that is as you believe, my Lord, then I will try to find wisdom in it.”

Valory nodded. “That is good of you, Lady Sybina. Mercy is an admirable quality.”

“You have much to teach me, my Lord,” she said. The women tittered again, fans batting.

“Is that not the role of a husband?” he asked, voice tight. “Now I’m afraid I must take your leave; my visit to the cathedral is long overdue.”

“Of course, my Lord.” She and her peers all lowered into formal curtseys. He took her hand, bowing to brush a chaste kiss across the knuckles before turning and departing. The courtiers began to whisper and giggle the moment he left the gazebo. As he passed through the garden, he heard Sybina’s voice raise again in another firm condemnation of Lord Alec’s daughter and her handmaid.

If he wasn’t careful, she was going to cause him no end of trouble.

_What a nightmare._


	19. Chapter 19

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 24; 2421_

It was an hour into the definitive strategy meeting before Elona, and Arden and Valory had both already lost the thread of conversation. Valory played at paying attention, sipping his coffee and staring at pinned up maps of Elona’s harbor with feigned interest. Beside him, Arden shuffled through his papers, lips moving soundlessly as he went over the finer points of his notes.

Imran had been right after all. Early that morning they had woken before the sun (as was their wont, so Arden might exit the tower undetected). As they dressed, Valory had asked his Steward about his prolonged silence in council. Arden’s words on the subject had echoed Imran’s rather exactly: he had spent the better part of two weeks cataloging the loyalties of the other councilors and the faults in their plans. When the time came to strike – mid-morning, he thought – he knew how to frame his argument in order to stun his detractors into submission.

Mid-morning had arrived, however, and Arden seemed uninterested in interrupting the fruitless debate currently raging over whether the attack should come by land or by sea. A servant appeared before the dais with a hot kettle of fresh coffee. Arden waved him away distractedly, but Valory held out his cup to be topped up. He took a splash of cream as well, but abstained from any sugar. As the servant moved on towards Verne and Miran’s long-empty cups, Valory leaned over towards Arden.

“It’s your last day to speak your mind,” he whispered.

Arden frowned down at his notes. “I know.”

“Will you do so, then, and spare us this torture?”

Arden sighed, glancing over at him. “I’m starting to wonder how well-received I’ll be.”

“The merit of your work will stand on its own just as it did with Edgar’s men.”

“I’m more worried about the diplomatic aspect of the presentation.”

“You have a way with words,” Valory whispered. “Your oratory charms will win them over.”

“My oratory charms?”

“Illen knows I’m not immune to them, either.”

“It would be easier if I could simply borrow from those skills of mine that you find so appealing.”

Focused as he was on the matter at hand, Valory didn’t hear the double entendre in Arden’s words. “And that you will. It shan’t be so difficult,” he murmured, lifting his mug to his lips again.

“Perhaps not. Of course the flagstones in the hall will be rough on my knees, but that’s to be expected,” Arden remarked.

Valory spat a mouthful of coffee a few feet into the hall, spluttering and coughing. Arden clapped him firmly on the back, turning his head so the council couldn’t see his grin. “Are you quite alright, my Lord?” he asked, raising his voice as the ongoing debate halted in favor of checking on the Prince.

“Yes, yes, quite alright – inhaled a bit of coffee, I think,” he said, waving away the concerned stares leveled at him. Dropping his voice again as the debate resumed, he whispered, “What, are you trying to kill me?”

“They don’t call it a little death for nothing, my Lord,” Arden quipped.

Valory hid his grin behind his mug. “You are a menace.”

“You’ve been winding me up before council for days. It was time you got yours.”

“That so?”

Miran’s voice interrupted their whispered conversation. “My Lord?” His tone of voice made it clear that this was not the first time Valory’s name had been called.

“Yes, Lord Miran?”

“We were discussing the relative methods of land- and sea-based attacks. Lord Lester had pointed out that the fort at Elona is weakest when attacked from land, yet Admiral Francis doesn’t wish for us to discount the strength of the Armathian navy.”

“Have we finally determined how many vessels we can outfit?” Valory asked.

“We have seven at our disposal, my Lord,” Francis replied.

“Seven only?”

A scowl crept across Francis’ face. “Perhaps if I were allotted more resources . . .”

“The Admiral doesn’t wish to leave Armathia without a standing navy,” Lord Lester said. “All the more reason to base our attack from land.”

“It would be folly to leave Armathia with nary a navy vessel. Ithaka is an important base, my Lord, but it is not Armathia,” Francis stressed.

“Agreed,” Valory said. “Still, seven vessels will do little against the combined threat of witches and Westernese.”

“That’s not counting the merchant and mercenary crews who are willing to contract their services to the crown for this action – Lord Steward Arden’s _Windjammer_ among them.”

“And if we commission each of those vessels?” Valory asked.

“Twelve, my Lord.”

“Still not ideal,” Miran warned.

“No, but what we lack in vessels we can make up for in men,” Valory suggested.

“I hope so, my Lords, though we have thus far been unable to reach an agreement on the matter. If we send out seven of our vessels, they will all run shorthanded.”

“What do you need, knights? Infantry? Cavalry?” Verne asked. “You will get them.”

“No,” the Captain of the Guard protested, “we have sent too many to Anaphe already.”

“Would you rather we were soundly beat at Ithaka for allowing our vessels to go into combat undermanned?” Francis demanded. “We will lose many more that way.”

“We will lose many men if you continue to insist upon launching an attack on the fort from the harbor,” Lord Lester insisted.

“Not if we are properly outfitted,” Francis argued. “I will keep your soldiers safe, gentlemen, but I need them.”

“Take the infantry, then, and what knights are released by their liege lords. We will keep the cavalry in Armathia,” Miran said.

Francis threw up his hands. “And what, storm the fort on our hands and knees?”

“Horses are impractical in that harbor,” Miran dismissed.

“They would be essential for a land-based attack, my Lord,” Lester pointed out.

“All the more reason to come at them from the sea,” Miran said.

“Impractical, my Lord,” Lester tutted.

“But leaving our men vulnerable to attack on the road from Redrock Bay is?” the Captain of the Guard demanded.

“Better than outfitting twelve vessels and sending them out to battle with packs of witches,” Lester scoffed.

“If I may,” Arden cut in, using the commanding tone Valory recognized as his First Officer voice, “I think there is room for compromise. We can take from the infantry _and_ cavalry without depriving Armathia of one or the other, can we not? Our discussion thus far has revolved around an either/or principle – land, or sea? I say we pinch the Westernese on both sides.”

It was the first time he had spoken in days. Valory saw the glances that the councilors gave one another – surprised and intrigued at the same time. “Go on,” he said, nodding.

“Lord Lester is right to say that the fort is more vulnerable from the west. However, if we want to attack via the overland route, our cavalrymen will be exposed the moment they leave Redrock. Unless, of course, the Westernese do not see them coming, or cannot afford to divert the resources needed to target them,” Arden reasoned.

“Are you proposing that we use the attack at the harbor as a diversion?” Francis asked. “I’m not sure we can hold off the witches for that long, my Lord.”

“Not quite, no,” Arden shook his head. “I propose we storm the beaches. I meant it when I said we should attack them from both sides. To carry out such a maneuver we wouldn’t need many infantrymen; rather, we would need a highly trained force that would be comfortable launching an attack from the water.”

“Are you suggesting using launches – or worse yet – letting our men out in shallow water with sea-witches about?” Miran asked.

“No. I suggest we conduct an amphibious attack by beaching two of our vessels. Any with a lapstrake hull would be ideal in these conditions. I believe we have a few in the fleet amongst our smaller vessels, do we not, Admiral?” Arden asked.

“Two, in fact,” Francis confirmed. “Smaller, shallow draft, ideal for beaching. Just as you say, my Lord.”

“Won’t we run the risk of springing a leak as the hull dries and the planks shrink? It would be folly to sacrifice two vessels when we barely have any to spare,” Lester argued.

“Lapstrake hulls don’t use oakum, so we won’t have to worry about recaulking the vessels before heading back to sea,” Arden countered. “Beaching would not be my first choice either, but we need a way to get our men ashore without leaving them vulnerable to witches.”

“This would do it,” Francis said. “The ships wouldn’t shield them completely, but they would be enough. That is a brilliant idea, my Lord.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Arden nodded. “We will time the attack on the harbor to coincide with slack high tide; that’s when our cavalrymen will take the gates from the western side. The fort is solid but not impenetrable, especially once we consider how undermanned the Westernese will be.”

“It might be possible to give you the men you need, my Lord,” the Captain of the Guard said, looking at a map of Elona thoughtfully. “I had thought it would take a great force to overpower both the fort and the witches, though I see that might not be the case.”

“Since we aren’t participating in maneuvers as we did at Illen’s Arm, a full complement of shipboard soldiers won’t be necessary aboard each vessel,” Arden agreed. “Of course, there will be some conflict in the harbor to account for.”

Valory nodded, sipping at his coffee. _And so the desert-snake strikes._ “We will have ten vessels to take any Januzian patrols.”

“And to hold off the witches until our men are safely ashore,” Arden completed.

“But those ten vessels will be overrun with witches, my Lord,” Lester argued. “It would be an unwieldy sacrifice.”

“I will not pretend as though the witches do not pose a dire threat to our success,” Arden acknowledged. “Spreading their numbers over ten decks will help. At Illen’s Arm the witches retreated once it became clear that the battle was a lost cause. I am counting on a similar approach at Elona. They will fight hard, but they can do naught once we take back the fort.”

“We’ll be prepared for them this time, as well. That will be a great point in our favor,” Valory added.

Murmurs of approval could be heard around the chamber. Miran spoke up. “And what of the Sea-Witch King?” Valory’s brows rose. It was the first time he had ever heard Miran address one of Arden’s suggestions without a hint of malice or derision.

Arden masked his surprise as best he could, gathering his notes and standing. “The Witch King will come for my Lord Valory in order to finish what he started with Prince Siath.” The councilors began to murmur again; Prince Siath’s condition was rarely discussed aloud.

“You believe that the Sea-Witch King is the one responsible for Prince Siath’s stupor?” Verne asked, taking and skimming Arden’s proffered notes.

Arden turned to distribute the bulleted results of his research to the council. “I am certain of it. The Witch King has the capabilities. Remember that they were given a gift by the Gods once – ages ago though it was – and that such power still runs in their veins.”

“Are you likening their magic to our enchantments?” Lester asked, as though Arden had said something blasphemous.

“They are one in the same. Just as mind-speak manifests itself in only one or two individuals each generation at most, the mind-magic of the sea-witches is a rare thing. Some have even hypothesized that their King is selected based on ability rather than birthright. That seems consistent with our experiences of the creature.”

“The Witch King can mind-speak, then?” a councilor ventured.

“We think so, yes. He can mind-speak. He can appear in the visions and dreams of unwary men. We have evidence that, in certain circumstances, he can even bend a man’s mind to his will.”

“You’re speaking of the Belenese officers interrogated after Illen’s Arm,” Verne said, frowning down at his brother’s careful notes.

“Yes. Master Lawrence believes that the Witch King’s abilities must mirror those of powerful Empaths; he suspects that the creature exercises his ability most easily when a man is asleep or experiencing a vision, and that any control over the mind of a waking man must be given voluntarily.”

“Interesting,” Verne nodded. “Have you experienced anything of the like, Admiral?”

“Not myself, no, but Lord Arden’s conclusions match well with the accounts I’ve heard throughout the years,” Francis said. Verne nodded, returning his attention to Arden’s notes, lips moving soundlessly as he went over another point.

“None of that explains your conviction that the Witch King is behind Prince Siath’s illness, my Lord,” Lester replied.

“Perhaps not, but it does demonstrate _how_ the Witch King could have preyed upon the Prince,” Arden said. “If you are looking for proof of the creature’s guilt, the best I can do is describe that pattern that I have seen emerge over the past few months. Every prominent citizen possessed of a powerful Empathetic or Prophetic enchantment has felt his pull. Why not the Prince?”

“My Lady?” Lester asked, turning immediately to the Queen.

“I have felt the tug, Lord Lester. It is an unsettling thing,” she confirmed.

“Lord Miran? Lord Verne?”

Verne shook his head. “My father and I cannot see into the heads of others, Lord Lester. We are not as susceptible to the advances of the Witch King.”

“Who else, then?”

“Master Lawrence, for one; he has stopped seeking visions out of fear of the Witch King’s predatory abilities. One of his priests, an Empath, has heard the clicking language of the witches in his sleep.”

Valory looked sideways at his Steward. “I know you are not happy to regale others with the tale of your own experience, but the council should know that the creature has appeared to you as well.”

“Is that so?” Miran asked.

Arden nodded. “Sparked, we think, when I made contact with the mark borne by my Lord Valory. These many and varied accounts of encounters with witches have given us more good news than bad, however. All tales of predatory visions – such as the one I believe Prince Siath is trapped within – specifically identify the Sea-Witch King.”

“Those vile things all look alike,” Lester dismissed.

“The Witch King earned his name for a reason. He bears a crown of tentacles,” Valory countered. “I have seen him with my own eyes; he is different in appearance from others of his kind. If my mother and other Seers claim that they saw him and not another, I am inclined to believe them.”

“That is your basis, then, for believing that the mind-magic of the Witch King has the Prince trapped? Is that not mere conjecture? Can it not be another illness entirely?” another councilor wondered.

“Prince Siath bears the same mark as Valory and I. It seems easily dismissed as greying hair at first, but a close look proves its origins much more insidious,” Arden replied. “I wouldn’t have noticed it had I not already had an intimate knowledge of the sort of mark the creature leaves behind.” He gestured towards the whorls of silver wrapped around his neck. The councilors murmured, talking amongst themselves for a few moments; most of the voices seemed to support Arden’s theories.

As soon as the Queen began to speak, the chamber fell silent. “Lord Arden, your report implies that there is a way to free my son from the witch’s clutches,” she said.

“If this is all the doing of a single witch, I say we kill the creature and have done with it,” another councilor spoke up.

“It isn’t quite as simple as that,” Arden cautioned. “I figured it might not be, and my suspicion was validated by several manuscripts I found regarding the nature of Ranael’s Gift. Some of them were truly ancient, but they all corroborated one another: we must avoid dealing a killing stroke to the Sea-Witch King when he is in full command of his faculties. In his death throes, he could drag the minds of his prisoners down to the locker with him.”

Murmurs began again as all those present digested the weighty information. “You are saying, then, that if we kill the Sea-Witch King, it will in turn kill the Prince?” Francis asked.

“In so many words, yes. He must relinquish control over their thoughts of his own free will.”

“And what would entice him to do such a thing?” Miran asked, voice yet again devoid of its usual combative undercurrent.

“His talent is not so different from ours,” Arden said, addressing his father. “It must take an immense amount of energy to hold Prince Siath in a vision against his will.”

“Are you suggesting he will ultimately tire?”

“It’s possible, but I tend to doubt we’d be so fortunate.”

“Then?” Lord Lester prompted.

Arden glanced around the chamber. Few of those assembled had enchantments even remotely as powerful as his; small wonder they hadn’t already made the connection themselves. “My Lord Valory,” he said, turning back to the dais, “you have a particularly strong talent, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Would you say it takes a great deal of effort to exercise it continuously over long periods of time?”

“I would, yes.”

“What would happen to your ability to do so if you were gravely wounded?” Arden pressed.

Valory nodded, understanding where Arden was headed. “It would become very difficult to maintain. I suppose, if the injury were severe enough, I would be forced to cease the use of my enchantment else risk overtaxing myself and passing out.”

“And so it will be with the Sea-Witch King,” Arden said. “We must deal him a blow – not fatal but nearly so – that forces him to release his grip on the minds he holds, else he lose consciousness in enemy clutches.”

“Can such a thing be done?” the Queen asked. “The creature must be extraordinarily powerful to do what he is doing to my son and so many others.”

“Powerful he is,” Valory agreed, “that I will not deny. I have fought him twice and narrowly escaped both times. This time, however, we will be prepared for his appearance.”

“Will mere preparation be enough, my Lord?” Francis asked.

“It will have to be. Lord Arden has assured me that this is our only option.”

“And if – forgive my pessimism – this all goes to the locker?” Lord Lester asked.

“If Siath does not escape the Witch King’s clutches, you mean?” Valory asked. “The crown will be passed to me once my father steps down.” Arden heard the tightness of his voice.

“And Lord Arden would become the High Steward,” Verne added, clearing up any confusion that the council might have had. Lester scowled – he had clearly already known the extent of the position for which his candidacy had been dismissed.

“Good job at not accepting Lord Alec’s pledge, my Lord, or the House of Stewards would have been rife with problems of succession,” one of the councilors said. Lord Alec shot to his feet, face clouded with rage.

“If you are referring to the bit of gossip going around about Lord Alec’s daughter,” Valory cut in before a brawl began, “I will take this opportunity to inform the lot of you that I couldn’t possibly care less, and don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“But my Lord, Alec’s girl—” Lester spoke up.

“Lester, if you insist on clucking like a hen, at least make yourself useful and fetch us some eggs,” Miran spat, sharp tongue silencing Lester immediately. “For those of you with useful questions about the line of succession – the curiosity radiates off all of you, button it up – if Prince Valory doesn’t come back from Ithaka, the crown falls to the House of Stewards. It would pass it directly to Lord Verne.”

A heavy silence fell at that. The line of Kings had remained unbroken for over two thousand years.

Arden’s practical voice cut through the room. “We had best place an extra guard upon Lady Agatha; if we fail at Ithaka, she carries Oceana’s heir.”

“We will not fail,” Valory said firmly. At Arden’s raised brow, he amended, “Yes, increase her protection detail. Let us prove it an unnecessary precaution.”

Valory’s statement was met with approval. “As it will be,” Francis agreed. “Lord Arden’s plan is a good one. We will pinch those Westernese bastards on both ends, retake what’s ours, and liberate our beloved Prince Siath,” he declared. “What say you, gentlemen?”

Miran’s grey eyes flicked over the hopeful faces of the assembled councilors. “We will have to call in the Captains to determine how many companies can be spared – both infantry and cavalry. Send notice to the knights of the province that their help is required, should their liege lords release them. With regards to the navy, I want our best-trained fighters on the vessel bearing Prince Valory and Lord Arden.”

Arden finally sat, argument won and proposal accepted. He relaxed into the seat, lifting up his mug, beckoning the servant for a celebratory cup of coffee.

“Well done,” Valory whispered as Francis said,

“I assume that Prince Valory will be traveling upon our flagship, then.”

“Actually Admiral, I had thought that it would be to our advantage if I remained aboard _Windjammer_ ,” he replied, fighting amusement at the baffled looks the councilors shot one another.

“ _Windjammer_? Sir?” Francis asked, clearly at a loss.

“Remember that any vessel I stand upon will become witch-fodder. Sailing with _Windjammer_ frees up the most powerful of our vessels to intercept any Januzian ships that seek to hinder the beaching process. Second, if I must fight the Sea-Witch King once more, I prefer to do so on familiar territory. My unit and Lord Arden’s men have become well accustomed to fighting together as a collective. I would be loath to break up the crew that took out the _Madesta_ single-handed.”

“Lord Arden, I assume you will sail with the Prince,” Francis said.

“Of course; I am his Steward.”

“You know the _Windjammer_ better than any of us, Lord Steward. Do you believe she and her crew can handle the Witch King and his minions?”

“We have a Sarian bo’sun, Admiral. Haven’t you heard? They’re excellent fishermen.” Arden grinned as the council broke into laughter.

He turned to see that Valory was smiling at him. It was an expression that Arden saw often, but was surprised to see in council, of all places. Valory’s broad, open smiles were reserved for private spaces. As Arden returned the smile, a sudden thought struck him. _That smile is mine. It’s for me. Whenever I see it, it’s directed at me._ The idea that he could so easily pull such an unguarded reaction from the Prince was a satisfying thought. _Look at you, smiling in council. I bet they never thought they’d see the day. You’re mine, Valory bar Adrianth._

“Fair enough, Lord Arden – I’ll consider the matter settled. Now as for the business of infantrymen and their distribution . . .”

“Admiral Francis, would you hold that thought? It’s not a matter that needs must be discussed in front of the whole council,” Miran said. “For now, let us see who agrees with the strategy put forth by Lord Arden this morning. All in favor?”

A resounding chorus of “Aye!” rang through the room.

“Very well. Do any wish to speak up against Lord Arden’s strategy? Not you, Lord Lester; I believe we’ve heard quite enough from you today. None? Then we shall consider debate closed on this topic.”

“When will you reach a decision on the matter, my Lords?” Francis asked.

“The military council will meet after the midday meal. The rest of you are dismissed until tomorrow morning, at which time it will be business as usual,” Miran continued.

“I should like to add,” Verne said, “that no word of what happened today is to pass your lips outside this hall – even to members of the council who were not in attendance today. The specifics of our strategy are not for public consumption.”

As Miran and Verne went through the motions of dismissing the council, Valory leaned over to Arden. “Where is Edmund?” he whispered.

“Ill, last I heard.”

“He will be furious when he realizes that he will be kept in the dark,” Valory pointed out.

“Verne was worried that permitting the discussion of these plans outside of the chamber would foster idle chatter. We can’t afford anything of the sort.”

“Regardless, I don’t look forward to fielding his displeasure.”

“His displeasure? He’s so desperate for you to marry his daughter that you have him by the bollocks until the nuptials. Besides, my father will most likely see to any questions or complaints Edmund has on the matter.” Arden shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me if my father told him a tall tale just to spite him.”

The Queen had spoken her final words of the morning, and so anything more Valory wanted to say was put off by the noise of scraping chairs and shuffling papers. Verne turned to them, leveling an appraising look at his little brother.

“Your strategy was sound. The council is pleased.”

“As is the Admiral, which was perhaps the greater achievement,” Arden admitted. “It went better than expected.”

“Indeed. I have looked over your notes on the mind-magic of the Sea-Witch King, however, and have a few pertinent questions regarding your citations and sources,” Verne continued. Arden smiled. It was the closest Verne would ever come to admitting that he needed to be walked through some of his brother’s more abstract conclusions.

“Lord Verne, if I might, I would like a word with my Steward first. I promise to return him to you in time for the noon meal,” Valory interrupted.

“Of course,” Verne nodded.

“Mother?” Valory asked.

“You both may go. Council resumes at one bell, but I would like to take my meal with you, son.”

“As you like,” he agreed, standing. “Come Arden; leave your notes with your brother. I doubt you’ll need them with that steel-trap memory of yours.”

With a quick bow to the Queen and the Stewards, Arden followed Valory out of the council chamber and through a series of corridors. They walked quickly for several minutes, Arden in step at Valory’s right-hand side. He had retreated back into his own thoughts, already mulling over what suggestions he would put forth at that afternoon’s military council. As such, he didn’t realize where they were going until they reached the secluded gardens located off of the royal apartments.

Valory led him wordlessly through the stone archway onto the main path. The royal gardens were known for their maze-like structure, and had been the subject of fabled conspiracies and trysts since Eramen’s time.

“If you had something of a sensitive nature to tell me,” Arden said, following Valory down a side-path lined with hedges that grew well above head-height, “we could have always gone to—mmph.”

The Prince kissed him hard, walking him back towards the patch of shade and privacy provided by an ancient willow. “You were brilliant in there,” Valory said, kissing down the side of his neck, hands roving hungrily over the muscled lines of his chest and back.

“If I had known this was what your reaction would be, I’d have brought the salve.” He fisted a hand in the fine embroidery of Valory’s tunic, pushing him down until he was seated on the grass. Straddling Valory’s hips, he added, “ _Fángon_ , if I’d known this was how you reacted to my displays of authority, the meeting in Kalma might have ended differently.”

“I would that it had. We might have put that cocky Kythrian twat in his place, then,” Valory growled, dropping Arden’s belt and yanking at the laces on his trousers.

Arden let out a breathless laugh. “Gavin?” he asked, rucking up Valory’s tunic. He leaned forward, licking a stripe up the center of Valory’s stomach, nibbling at the line of dark hair that ran between the well-defined muscles of his abdomen. He paused when he reached Valory’s chest, looking up at him with laughing eyes. “Wait. Did you just call one of Edgar’s Lieutenants – who fought at and survived Illen’s Arm – a twat?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Valory said, pulling Arden back towards him to resume work on his laces, palming him roughly through the fine material as he did.

Arden panted out a noise that was half-laugh, half-moan. “I’ll mark that down as another side-effect of my supposedly brilliant performance.”

Valory kissed him again, teeth dragging over his lower lip. “I can’t even imagine why you were nervous.”

Arden grunted, grinding their hips together as Valory finally wedged a hand into the placket of his trousers. “I’d hate for my father to become a regular topic of conversation at times like this, but—”

“Nervous about facing down High Steward Miran, were you?” Valory asked, flipping them over. “And to think,” he rasped in Arden’s ear, slipping while a hand beneath his waistband, “you went to face him while wearing not a stitch of smallclothes.”

“Oh!”

No other words were heard outside the little clearing for some time.

…

“Much celebration tonight,” Miran stated, regarding the men and women gathered in the great hall with a watchful eye.

“It was kind of the Queen to hold a banquet in our honor. It’s a helpful thing, to bolster the men’s spirits the night before departure,” Arden agreed, nodding towards the corner of the room where several officers entertained a group of noblewomen.

“The intent is to divert their thoughts from what they will face in Ithaka. We cannot afford desertion the night before departure.”

Arden’s lips thinned at his father’s terse words. “No, I suppose not.”

“Perhaps we will have better luck with that this time,” Miran remarked, eyeing his son with a raised brow.

Arden grit his teeth. “Can’t leave well enough alone, can you? Fine. I’ll not stand around and let you rub salt in it.” He drained his glass and set it down on the ledge before stalking off without another word.

“Father.” Verne’s reproachful tone indicated that he had overheard their conversation. He stepped forward to take Arden’s place.

“He must learn to live with the consequences of his actions,” Miran defended.

“He has.” Verne frowned. “I often wonder what I might have done were our places reversed.”

“I hadn’t thought you the sort to level accusations at your father, Verne.”

“That was not my intention. I am equally to blame for Arden’s departure – for the way that he came to decide that desertion was his only option.”

“You have no culpability in the matter,” Miran shook his head. “He was a grown man and he made his choice. Twenty years does not erase that.”

“Perhaps,” Verne murmured.

“Beware, lest sentiment get a hold of your capacity for reason.”

“Of course, Father.”

“Verne? Unreasonable?” Valory’s voice cut into their conversation. The Prince approached, joining them near the railing.

“My son is ever in danger of assuming more responsibility than he needs must, my Lord,” Miran said, leveling a knowing look at Verne.

“The nature of the profession demands it, does it not?” Valory shrugged. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Lord Miran, but several of the councilors are steeped in a friendly debate regarding the Sarian royal line and look to you to settle the matter.” At Miran’s pointed frown he added, “Far be it from me to tell them what I know and be drawn into inanity myself.”

“Much obliged, my Lord,” Miran’s words dripped with sarcasm. With a precise bow, he turned and made for the knot of councilors at the far end of the hall.

“What did he say?” Valory asked as soon as the High Steward was out of earshot.

Verne’s customary frown creased the corners of his mouth. “Dropping eaves, my Lord?”

“Not at all, though I will readily admit my impulse to pay attention when my Steward and his father speak.”

“My brother has learned how to manage their interactions adequately.”

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own affairs?”

“No, but you can do naught to aid them. You must be patient. Many years of damage needs must be undone.”

“Patience is not a virtue of mine,” Valory admitted.

“Yet valor always has been, my Lord.”

Valory made a face. “Must you?”

“Gallantry, then, if you like. Yet I’m afraid you must resist the impulse to do battle on my brother’s behalf. He would resent you for such an action, if done without his knowledge.”

“It’s no easy thing to sit back and watch the two of them bait one another.”

Verne shook his head. “Nor has it ever been.”

Their conversation trailed off for a few moments. Each watched the couples twirling across the floor; Arden led a dark-haired woman in step, clearly making an effort to enjoy himself. She was laughing, delighted with some witticism he’d made. His smile, however, seemed strained at the edges.

“I am to be a father soon.” Verne’s hushed tones broke the silence.

Valory nodded, unsure how to respond. “You must be pleased.”

“I am, though I’ll admit I hadn’t given much thought to the matter until recently.” His eyes didn’t waver from his younger brother. “It is important that I learn to be a proper father to my son, no matter how different in character from me he may be.”

“A noble aim.”

“Yet not the simplest.”

“No, I suppose not.” Valory understood what Verne was attempting to express but had little idea how to respond. “I know nothing about raising children, I’m afraid, though I imagine there is value in being aware of the potential pitfalls of fatherhood.”

“If only children came with their own treatise,” Verne sighed.

Valory’s lips twitched at Verne’s attempt at humor. “A treatise on the care and rearing of one Alistair bar Verne?”

“I’d learn it by rote if I had to.”

“Careful there; you’re starting to sound like your brother,” Valory quipped.

“Not such a terrible thing, perhaps.” Verne’s eyes were on the floor. Valory hummed his agreement, lifting his gaze to watch Arden as well.

Arden had switched partners after the last dance had ended, and now moved through the precise steps of a formal Armathian dance with a pretty blonde tucked into his arm. As they passed near, Valory overheard a snatch of the blonde’s nervous giggling. He recognized the girl – the young daughter of a minor nobleman – only newly past her majority, if memory served him. A combination of annoyance and amused fondness assailed him. The girl seemed genuinely thrilled to be on the arm of a Steward. As such, Valory found it difficult to begrudge her the time she shared with him, even if a rather intense possessive impulse rose within him at the sight of another cradled in Arden’s arms.

Verne must have misinterpreted the look on Valory’s face, for he remarked, “I wouldn’t have thought he would take the floor without prompting, either. It surprises me he even remembers the steps.”

“Wasn’t one for public functions as a young man, was he?” Valory mused.

“Conrad used bribes and blackmail to ensure that he took at least one turn around the floor.”

“Siath did the same when I was younger,” Valory admitted. “He feared I did too much carousing with common soldiers.”

“That certainly wasn’t a problem we had with Arden. I never thought I would see the day, but it seems he merely got a late start.” Verne nodded towards the floor where the young noblewoman was smiling and blushing at something Arden had said. “You must have been startled to see him in Anaphe.”

“I didn’t recognize him until we clasped arms,” Valory admitted. “Even then, he was so wholly different from what I remember that it was somewhat akin to meeting a stranger.”

“You seem to have become friends.”

“It was a surprise to learn how alike we are in some ways,” he nodded.

“Fortuitous.”

“Indeed,” Valory agreed.

The music reached its final cadence, after which Arden’s carriage relaxed from the stiff, formal pose of the dance. “Will you be taking your intended for another turn about the floor, my Lord?” Verne asked as another young noblewoman approached his brother.

“Perhaps.”

Verne frowned. “She has been a popular partner this evening.”

“In other words?”

“Rumors have begun again regarding your reluctance and her virtue, my Lord.”

“Those with little else to do will always lend an ear to rumor, Lord Verne. I hardly see how that concerns me.”

“It is time you made good on your father’s promise, my Lord.”

“I will marry when my brother becomes King. Until then, leave me to enjoy the last of my bachelorhood.” Valory’s tone was clipped.

Verne’s frown deepened. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“Your concern is appreciated, but misplaced.”

“I would feel more at ease had I not overheard the whispers. With Edmund still indisposed they see fit to let their tongues wag. Your decision to allow Agatha’s cousin to accompany her to tonight’s events has not helped matters.”

“Is that what you mean to chastise me for?” Valory raised a brow.

“I do not enjoy fielding speculation on whether or not the future Regent is a philanderer or potential cuckold.”

“If you prefer, you may inform the masses that I intend to leave the great hall shortly in order to be up before the sun. I had no intention of punishing her with such an early departure.”

“I doubt, given her sensibilities, that Lady Sybina has any intention of staying out late,” Verne pointed out.

“Then I had best leave before her, hadn’t I?”

“Surely you do not intend to slip away now, my Lord; the festivities have barely begun!” Verne said, aghast.

“I do. Please inform the gossipmongers that I want to rest – a function of how very seriously I take my role in the retaking of Elona,” Valory continued.

“The meal has only just finished . . . my Lord? My Lord!” Verne protested as Valory bowed out of their conversation, turning to join Arden’s group of admirers.

Lace fans began to flutter as they chorused a greeting to him in nearly one voice. Arden gave a half-bow, a somewhat puzzled look gracing his features. “My Lord?”

“I hate to interrupt, but I require a word with you,” he said, watching the faces of several women fall at his words.

“Of course. If you will all excuse me.” Arden bowed again, brushing a formal kiss across the knuckles of the girl who had his arm before extracting himself from the group.

Arden followed Valory away from the center of the room, peripherally aware that Verne was tracking their progress towards the doors. “Has something happened?” he asked as they neared the archway to the hall.

“What do you think of the festivities?” Valory asked, avoiding Arden’s question. They paused just inside the doorway.

“They’re pleasant enough.”

“But?” Valory arched a brow.

Arden’s eyes slid away from his. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, only—”

“You would rather be down on the second level, celebrating with the others like a proper sailor,” he completed.

Arden ducked his head. “I know those days are behind me—”

“Are they?” Valory interrupted, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Are you suggesting we abandon the great hall in favor of the ale-drinking, foot-stomping bacchanalia that’s sure to be spilling into the streets on Tavern Row?”

A slow grin spread across Valory’s face. “Will you join me?”

“Gods, yes.” The relief in Arden’s voice was palpable.

“Come on, then.” Valory ducked out of the great hall with Arden right at his side. Verne’s disapproving stare followed them out.

They hurried through the halls of the palace, half-running, half-walking in the direction of the stables. They were of the age and rank that no one would have stopped them in the corridor, yet the act of leaving a court celebration in favor of more common revelry felt so delightfully wicked that they hurried regardless, communicating in whispers and hand signals.

The stable boy jumped nearly a foot when they barged in. He couldn’t quite mask his surprise when Valory asked for the two most inconspicuous nags in the stable to be saddled without the royal colors. Although he hastened to obey the order without question, Valory supposed it would be too much to hope that news of their mysterious excursion wouldn’t reach Verne’s ears before their departure the next day.

By the time the boy returned with the requested horses, Valory and Arden were picking at their clothing and eyeing one another up rather critically. “That waistcoat has to go,” Arden shook his head. “It’s not as though we won’t be recognized, but you can’t walk into Black Wave looking like _that_.” As he spoke he pulled the fine blue tunic over his head, leaving behind a cream-colored shirt.

They stripped off the outer layers of their finery, rolled up embroidered cuffs, and unbuttoned their shirts enough to portray a suitably casual appearance. “Hair,” Valory reminded him, unknotting the string that held his own back and shaking his head with pleasure as it fell loose around his shoulders.

Arden stuffed their discarded finery into one of his saddle bags, mounting up with an impish grin on his face. “I wager I’ll get there first,” he taunted.

“Do you, now? Then you won’t mind a bet that says the slower rider buys the first round, will you? I rather like it when others provide my drink.”

“We’ll see about that,” Arden scoffed. “We’ll go from the inner city gates. I hope you brought coin with you – you’ll be needing it.”

“Do you doubt my riding?” Valory asked as they left the stables at a trot, voice low.

“I have yet to see you ride.” It was abundantly clear that they were not speaking about horses alone.

“I’m told I have a natural hand at it,” Valory smirked.

“If that turns out to be the case, I may require a demonstration later.”

Valory’s tone was light as they drew near the gate guards. “Only if you permit me to sit astride my preferred sorrel.”

Arden arched a brow. “Is the sorrel the best ride of the lot then, my Lord?”

Valory smothered a laugh as they passed through the gates. “Indubitably.”

Arden rolled his eyes as they turned the corner. “First an otter, now a horse. At least there was innuendo this time.”

“I’ll have to make it up to you then, will I?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Mmm. To the Black Wave, then? Last to the door drops coin?”

“Indeed,” Arden agreed. “Better loosen your purse strings.”

At those words they took off, hooves thundering through the streets. It was remarkable how different the city appeared compared with their trip two weeks prior; the only sign of life in the top levels came in the lit windows of well-kept houses and the occasional passing pedestrian or guard. The market stalls in the lower levels were shut up for the night, the usual hustle and bustle of the space giving way to utter stillness. As they drew nearer to the district of the second level that serviced the fort, however, silence gave way to the sounds of shouts and clapping, familiar refrains carried their way on the wind.

Arden and Valory were nearly neck-in-neck as they pulled into the final stretch. Arden took the corner sharper, managing to slide into the narrow alleyway that led to Black Wave in front of the Prince. Valory tried for one last push at the end but Arden held onto his lead, pulling up to a stop mere seconds earlier.

This was the part of the second level nicknamed Tavern Row, and on evenings such as this – before navy and army men were due to ship out – its streets brimmed with soldiers and sailors eager to enjoy their last night of freedom. Black Wave was the largest tavern on the row with an expansive open patio in the back well-suited to the large crowds that came and went with each night.

Arden leapt from his mount, grinning triumphantly back at Valory. Their appearance drew the attention of most of the street’s bystanders, all of whom stopped and stared at the new arrivals from the upper levels.

“I’ll have a pint, if you please,” he said, unable to keep from rubbing in his victory.

Valory grumbled good-naturedly as he hitched his horse next to Arden’s. “Cutting corners like that, I don’t know . . .”

“Come off it, I walloped you fair and square,” Arden teased, elbowing him in the ribs as they made for the Black Wave’s open door. The makeshift band had looked poised to start in on another reel, but the accordion player froze mid-cue when he saw who had walked in.

The room’s chatter mostly ceased as necks craned in curiosity. Arden shuffled his feet. He was unused to being stared at everywhere he went, and supposed it had been a bit too much to hope that their presence would go unremarked. Though they had shed their most identifiable clothing, he and Valory did make a rather imposing – and obvious – pair.

Arden was still trying to figure out what to say to ease the tension and send everyone back to their mugs when a figure sprang into the room from the patio, running towards them full-tilt.

“Jack!” Ehrin cried, delighted to see him. “Look at you in your fancy Steward’s togs!”

He grabbed her around the waist, picking her up and swinging her about in a whirl of skirts and a fit of giggles. “Well met, Lady of the Galley,” he grinned.

“I knew it – you only love me for my lemon cakes.”

“True,” he nodded with poorly affected gravity, “and I have missed those lemon cakes a great deal.”

She swatted his shoulder. “And to think, I had hoped that earning such a high title might have taught you some manners.”

“Terribly optimistic of you, Ehrin,” Valory put in.

“Hey now, I believe you still owe me a pint,” Arden reminded him.

“You’re fortunate that your impertinence contrives to be so amusing,” Valory replied, holding up two fingers to the bartender who, like the rest of the occupants of the tavern, had been watching the entire exchange.

The Prince’s request for drink set the patrons of the Black Wave at ease. The musicians picked up their instruments once more; Jonah was among them, grinning madly, violin slung low on his shoulder. He tapped out the time with his foot before diving into a popular reel about promiscuous chandler’s wives.

Arden cheerfully swept Ehrin into step, weaving out onto the lit patio where most of the dancing happened. Valory moved to the bar to await the pints, eyes trained on the floor for the second time that night. This time, however, Arden’s smile was genuine; his deep belly-laugh could be heard over the wild wheeling of Jonah’s fiddle.

The pints were produced promptly – rank had its privileges – and Valory dropped a generous sum on the bar before gathering the mugs and moving out towards the patio. He dodged frolicking couples, scanning the tables until he located his men. He was unsurprised to find them sharing a table with _Windjammer_ ’s crew just at the edge of the patio.

The men jumped to their feet and arms were clasped all around. It was plain to see how thrilled they were that Arden had become his Steward, though the real excitement stemmed from Valory’s desire to renew their commission. Even Niko, leg only recently healed from Illen’s Arm, was spoiling for another fight. Valory fought the grin that threatened to creep across his face as they insisted upon dealing him into a round of Ante. He could well understand Niko’s thirst for action. Armathia had driven him stir-crazy, but that was soon to be at an end.

Coming to the Black Wave reminded him why he always used to sneak off to Tavern Row as a young man. The mood was different than that of the upper levels, even during times of celebration. He leaned back in his chair, picking up the cards Gabe flicked his way, keeping an eye on the spirited dancing that made the precise steps of court dances seem stiff and bland by comparison.

Arden begged off the dance floor after only one reel, most likely concerned with the implications that any further revelry would have upon his reputation. He collapsed into the chair next to Valory as Ehrin twirled back out onto the floor, stomping out the steps to the next tune solo until a merchant jack tar pulled her into enthusiastic step. Arden lifted his mug and they toasted with a mighty clank.

“To the liberation of Ithaka,” he said.

“To bringing our men back in one piece,” Valory added.

“And springing free those held by the Witch King.”

Valory hesitated for a moment, face softening. “To ‘hello.’”

A fond smile lit up Arden’s face. “I’ll drink to that, my Lord.”

“Steward-mine.”

They toasted again before drinking a long draught each. Arden leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, eyeing Valory’s cards as he did. “I’ve missed this.”

“Mmm,” Valory agreed, discarding.

Gabriel leaned forward across the table, a frown etched into his kind features. “I had almost forgotten we were in Armathia,” he murmured.

“And so what? Let’s see that parlor trick of yours again,” Lars goaded.

“Valory can shut me out of his mind if he wants to; he always does so in Armathia because of the company he keeps,” Gabe replied, clearly distracted.

“Just a minute there, lad – did you just mean to say that the Prince can best you at cards?” Callum asked incredulously.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Valory remarked.

“You hear that, boys? The Prince is taking on a telepath in a hand of Ante!” Niko said, thrilled at the prospect. Money began to change hands as _Windjammer_ ’s crew – and the occupants of surrounding tables – placed their bets.

“If only Verne and my father could see what we’re up to right now,” Arden mused as Royals were flung about and shouts rung out each time a card was put down.

“Public displays of indiscretion haven’t held appeal for me in quite some time. For some reason, though, two interminable weeks of Armathian council have made betting on cards seem like just the thing,” Valory said, letting out a satisfied sigh as he slapped his winning hand down on the table.

“I knew I shouldn’t have dealt you in,” Gabe sighed, dropping his cards.

Valory watched as Imran discreetly slid a Royal over towards Arden. “You bet on me?” he asked.

His Steward shrugged. “Can’t exactly bet against you now, can I? Besides, if I’m going to participate in behavior that would have my father fitting, I might as well get the most out of it.”

“Let’s hope your winnings get us through the verbal dressing down we’re sure to get from your brother tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? I’m sure he already knows where we are. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t come to find us in the middle of the night.”

“And get the shock of his lifetime.”

Arden snorted. “Especially if you plan on making good on your promise to demonstrate your esteemed equestrian techniques,” he murmured.

“I fully intend to, though I might prop a chair beneath the door handle just to be safe,” Valory said, letting slip another one of the smiles that so rarely graced his features except in Arden’s presence.

Niko broke into their conversation. “Another hand, my Lord?”

“No, I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” he declined.

“J—Arden?” Niko offered.

“I’ll pass on this one. You’ll have plenty of time to trounce me on the way to Ithaka.”

Niko’s face darkened momentarily at the mention of his home, but he shrugged it off. “I’ll get your coin now or later; it’s all the same to me.”

Arden hadn’t noticed that the fiddle’s voice had dropped out of the music until Jonah appeared at their table, a pint in his hands and a grin on his face. “Look at you, _Lord Steward_ Arden! It’s a pity we won’t be getting our Mate back, but that was a damn fine bit of news to hear during our overhaul.”

“Thank you, Jonah.”

“Oceana couldn’t ask for a better Steward, lad,” Callum added.

“Aye, Captain. And Jack, I’ve got to hand it to you; if I tell the lasses I’ve been sailing with the new Steward all these years, they’ll be falling all over me,” Jonah waggled his brows.

Arden rolled his eyes. “You’re very welcome, then, but don’t expect me to do any of that tonight.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, it looks like I won’t need any help; one of the innkeeper’s daughters has been giving me the eye ever since I picked up my fiddle.” Picking up his mug, he announced, “A toast: to Prince Valory’s good taste in Stewards.”

Laughing, Arden added, “and to _Windjammer_ and her crew. May she bear us safely to the shores of Ithaka.”

“And may we wipe the Westernese from those same shores,” Niko added, thrusting his mug in the air.

Their words drew the attention of several neighboring tables, inspiring related toasts regarding the defeat of the sea-witches and asking the Gods to bless their journey. Arden found himself toasting both friends and strangers, sailors of all sorts clanking mugs with him and clapping him on the back in congratulations. By the time he took his seat again, he had finished his pint.

Arden glanced down at his empty mug, then up at the table. “Another round?”

Valory took a final draught of his before sliding it over. “If we’re going to catch grief for abandoning the palace in favor of the Black Wave, we might as well make it worth our while.”

…

“That was amazing,” Fiona said under her breath.

Jarmon smiled. “Never imagined it would be quite like this when you decided to succeed your father, did you?” he mused, leading her through the courtyard by the elbow. Captain Malcolm – doggedly persistent in his desire to serve as the acting viceroy’s guard detail – fell into step just behind them.

Word of the arrival of companies of cavalrymen carrying the Armathian standard had reached the city earlier that day. Thrilled and relieved at finally receiving the reinforcements promised by the Queen, Fiona had gone to the city gates to greet the soldiers in person. Much to her delight, she wound up at the head of a grand procession. She rode through the streets of Anaphe beside the commander, attempting to appear calm and dignified though her heart raced with excitement.

The commander had knelt before her once they arrived at the city gates, where their audience was the largest. He swore his company to her service, announcing their loyalty to ‘ _Viceroy Fiona bar Miran, by order of our Lady the Queen of Oceana’_. It was one of the proudest moments of Fiona’s life.

She had gratefully accepted his words and saw to getting the officers settled in the palace’s guest quarters while the Admiral’s men oversaw the lodging of the common soldiers in the fort. All in all it had been a spectacular morning, and she was not so naïve as to have missed the newfound grudging respect in the eyes of some of her former detractors. For the first time since taking her father’s title, she was looking forward to that afternoon’s council.

“Did you see the way the two councilors from the western border bowed when I passed? They hadn’t done much more than nod at me previously,” Fiona said, girlish excitement creeping back into her tone.

“I daresay having an Armathian commander at your feet will change some minds, my Lady,” Jarmon said. “Now I don’t wish to ruin a happy moment, but while you were welcoming the commander and his men to the city, I gleaned some information from one of his officers.”

Fiona let out a long sigh. “Let’s have it, then.”

“Our most recent dispatches to the capital were intercepted. Another one of our messengers was discovered by the roadside. From the description given, it sounds as though he perished the same way as the last one did.”

“Another attack from the mystery creature?” she asked.

“The Lieutenant seemed unwilling to attribute the brutality of the attack to the foraging of desert wolves.”

“I will be happy when the last of the rains are at an end and the coastal route can reopen.” After a moment’s pause, another thought struck her. “Were our dispatches recovered?”

“No, my Lady.”

“What sort of creature would take our letters?”

“I imagine they were removed from the body after death. We are fortunate; there wasn’t any sensitive information inside.”

“Only our retelling of the Kythrian Admiral’s words, notes on the Anaphean fleet, and some personal letters to my uncle and grandfather,” Fiona mused. “I’m not sure how much I like the idea of an enemy knowing how poorly defended our harbor is.”

A small, proud smile pulled at Jarmon’s features. “You are beginning to think like a true viceroy, my Lady. Don’t worry overmuch about the missing letters. Their contents were trivial.”

Fiona frowned, rubbing at her temples to ward off the sudden onset of a headache. “Don’t coddle me, Jarmon – especially not when you are so worried yourself.”

Jarmon’s brows knit together. “My Lady?”

“I can feel the concern radiating off of you.”

Jarmon glanced down at Fiona’s talisman, then back up at her face. “Has that always been the case?”

“No, which is why I’ll not let you convince me that this is so small a matter.”

“I must have let my guard drop,” he murmured. “Apologies. In faith, my Lady, those missing letters are the least of my worries at present.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You’re telling the truth.”

Jarmon looked affronted. “Of course I am.”

“I know. Gods, my head is just _aching_. I’m all scrambled. After all of that excitement I might need a lie-down.”

“You’ve been getting headaches often after council these days. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Fiona waved a hand. “There you go, getting worried again. I’m sure it’s nothing that a meal and some rest won’t settle.”

Jarmon regarded the young viceroy carefully. “If you say so, my Lady.”

As the words left his mouth, he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he even had the time to react, Malcolm had lunged forward and borne the three of them down to the ground. The arrow that had been meant for Fiona whistled overhead before striking a pillar and clattering uselessly against the cobbles.

Fiona let out a startled huff of air as Malcolm landed on top of her, forcing the breath from her lungs. “What?” she managed to croak before lifting her head, eyes falling immediately upon the barbed arrow that rested mere feet in front of her.

“We have to move,” Malcolm said, firm authority in his voice.

Jarmon shouted for the guards as Malcolm pulled Fiona to her feet, dragging her away from the center of the courtyard. This time he heard the whistle of the next arrow and yanked Fiona in front of him. She gasped as it passed right where her back had been.

“Malcolm—” there was a tremor in her voice.

“Through the archway, no time to waste. You too, Lord Jarmon – go!” he commanded.

They sped towards the stone archway at the end of the courtyard as chaos unfurled behind them. Jarmon’s cries had raised the alarm; Malcolm’s guardsmen spilled into the courtyard in an attempt to identify and eliminate the enemy. As they ran about, one final arrow was loosed from the attacker’s hiding spot. This one aimed truer than the others, grazing Malcolm’s shoulder on its way past. Malcolm grimaced but his pace did not slow; he hustled Fiona and Jarmon the last few steps into the corridor.

“Make for your quarters, my Lady. They will be well-protected,” he said, wincing against the sharp pain in his shoulder.

Glancing back at him, Fiona gasped. “You’re hit!”

“I was grazed, no more. Please Fiona, you must hurry. I have no way of knowing if we are being followed.”

As they turned another corner they nearly ran headlong into two men under Malcolm’s command. “We came as soon as we heard the call, Captain,” the one said.

“Cover our rear and keep an eye on our charges,” Malcolm ordered, bounding ahead in order to lead the way through the twisting corridors.

When they finally reached the viceroy’s apartments, Malcolm slammed the door open with his sword drawn. He cleared all of the rooms while his men set about the task of barring the windows and bolting the door.

“Captain,” Fiona’s frame trembled, “what happened? Who was that?”

Malcolm returned to the sitting room a moment later, a pained scowl on his face. “That was an attempt upon your life, my Lady. Rest assured my men will not pause until we hunt down the would-be assassin.”

Fiona shivered. “You’ve been injured.”

“I will seek out a Healer in short order, fear not. First—” he turned to his men. “I want one of you to go for reinforcements. Only Anaphean guard, only those you trust implicitly. I want one man on each window and two at the door.”

“Yes Captain,” one of the guards bowed.

“Wait, guardsman,” Fiona interrupted.

“My Lady?”

“Please secure the services of a Healer on Captain Malcolm’s behalf. Have him brought here.”

“That isn’t necessary, Lady Fiona,” Malcolm protested.

“You suspect the arrow was poisoned,” she said, unable to pull her eyes from the wound. It now bled freely, soaking through the sleeve of Malcolm’s shirt.

“I had considered the possibility,” he admitted.

“Then it’s settled.” She massaged her temple with a hand. “The Healer will come here. He should be cautioned that antidote may be needed.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the guardsman bowed, hurrying out into the hall.

“Keep your post outside the door. Announce any visitors before permitting their entry, no matter who they are,” Malcolm addressed the remaining guard.

“Yes, Captain.” The man jumped to obey the order. Malcolm bolted the door as soon as it shut behind the man, sinking into a nearby chair immediately afterwards.

In her agitation over his injury Fiona burst into a flurry of activity, running into the washroom in search of cloth that could be used to put pressure upon the wound. Jarmon poured a glass of water out from a pitcher on a side table and offered it to the grimacing Captain.

“Best get some water in you if the tip was indeed poisoned.”

Malcolm finished the glass in a few gulps. As Fiona returned to the sitting room with several strips of cloth – taken, no doubt, from a newly-shredded article of clothing – Jarmon withdrew to the end of the chamber. Although he frowned upon the budding relationship between them, he found it difficult to play the part of chaperone when both were so clearly distressed by the close call the other had experienced.

“Let me,” Fiona murmured, knotting one of the cloths around the wound to stem the bleeding.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, “I’ll be fine.”

“You nearly took an arrow for me.”

“And I would do it again,” he swore. “It’s my duty to keep you safe.”

“Please,” she said, “I don’t think I can manage talk of duty right now.”

Malcolm frowned, tipping his head back to meet her concerned stare. “You know I would have done it even if duty didn’t compel me.”

“I know. That’s precisely why seeing you hurt distresses me so. Malcolm—” her voice broke.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked over towards Lord Jarmon. “It is a minor wound, my Lady.”

Fiona made a noise of distress. Lord Jarmon stood, expression twisted in a combination of guilt and pity. “My Lady—”

“Jarmon, please. Not now,” she begged.

Jarmon sighed. “I was merely wondering if I might presume to use your washroom, my Lady.”

“Of course.” Fiona regarded him with hesitant surprise.

“Thank you.” He leveled her with a meaningful look before disappearing into the other room. “Be careful, my Lady.”

After a heartbeat, Malcolm whispered, “Did he mean to give us privacy?” Ever since Fiona had taken the staff, it had proven nearly impossible for them to meet. Jarmon’s hovering had a great deal to do with that: they hadn’t been alone in months.

Fiona cupped Malcolm’s face in her hands, smoothing the pads of her thumbs over his cheekbones before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I think so. Malcolm—” she shifted to wind her arms around his neck, “when I looked back and saw the blood I was so worried.”

“It takes more than a traitor’s arrow to bring me down, my Lady.”

“I would never want you to sacrifice yourself for my sake,” she scolded, eyes brimming with tears. “Don’t do that to me again. And to think, if it’s poison—”

“The Healer will know what to do to counter its effects. I’ll be alright. You can’t ask me to forego my sworn oath to protect you simply because the job is a risky one.”

“Your death would kill me just as surely as any arrow,” she countered.

“Please,” he implored, “such words only make it harder on the both of us. It’s only a matter of time before you are promised to a man of station; don’t make the parting more painful than it already is.”

“Do you think it better to pretend that we care naught for one another, then? That I won’t long for you simply because I never got to feel your touch or hear your words whispered in my ear? That is a pretty lie you have crafted for yourself.”

“What would you have me do, then?”

“Love me for what time we may have together,” she insisted. “I know you feel for me. I _know_ you do.”

“And then be forced to watch you from afar ever after?”

“Don’t you think I’ll be doing the same? I’d not ask anything of you that I wouldn’t willingly give myself.” She caressed his cheek.

Malcolm shut his eyes, hands falling to rest on her waist. “Even if I am never able to say so plainly, my Lady, know that you will see my devotion in my continued service to you and your family.”

“Malcolm—”

“I would die for you, Fiona. Is that not enough?” he asked, voice cracking on the words.

“That’s not what I want.”

“We are not always granted the things we want. I have long since come to accept that. If the only way to be near you is as the Captain of your guard, I will have to content myself with that.”

“We could have so much more,” she insisted.

Malcolm shook his head. “But at what price?”

A loud rapping came at the door, followed by the guardsman’s voice. “A Healer and several reinforcements to see you, Captain.”

“A moment,” Malcolm called. He cupped Fiona’s cheek in one hand before pressing an all-too-brief kiss to her pouting lips.

He stood before she could say anything more, striding to the door and allowing the entrance of several liveried guards along with a court physician and his assistant. The guardsmen moved immediately to assume positions at all of the room’s entryways. Malcolm had only just thrown the bolt on the door once more when the physician began to scold him.

“Sit down, Captain – you’ve already begun to sweat. You were right to suspect poison. I don’t suppose you got a close look at the arrow that delivered it.” Noticing Fiona’s anxious hovering, he bowed his head. “My Lady.”

“My focus was on the protection of our viceroy,” Malcolm said, sinking back down into the chair with a wince.

“I saw the arrow,” Fiona said, startling them both. “The shaft was finely-hewn and unpainted, a natural wood color. The arrowhead was barbed, grey.”

“Grey? You’re certain?” the physician paused.

“Yes. Mottled grey.”

“How many barbs?” he asked.

“Just the one.”

“Fletching?” he demanded. Jarmon returned to the sitting room.

“I—” she hesitated, screwing her eyes shut and trying to summon the memory. “Light in color. White?”

“Came it from a longbow?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, I have little experience with such matters,” she said, coloring.

The physician shook his head. “Do not apologize, my Lady. Your memory of the incident is quite remarkable. You may well have saved the Captain’s life.” He turned to his assistant. “Fetch me the extract of cactus root.”

“You think this was the work of Dramor?” Malcolm asked, recognizing the ingredient named. “But the fletching, the shaft—”

“What are you speaking of?” Fiona asked as the physician took the proffered ingredients from his assistant and began grinding them into a paste.

“The fletching and shaft that you saw is Oceanic, my Lady; typical to Armathia and its surrounding province,” Malcolm ground out, eyes shut against the intensifying pain. “The arrowhead is not. That it is flint and not metal is unusual but not unheard of. The single barb is an Armathian trait, of course, but you named the flint as grey, not black. You’ll only find grey flint in the south, though it is rare this side of the border.”

“Dramorian, then,” Fiona completed.

“Whoever wanted you dead, my Lady, went to great lengths to make it seem as though you were targeted by one of your own,” the physician added, unknotting the rough bandage on Malcolm’s shoulder.

“The attack was timed this way for a reason,” Fiona said, cottoning on to their logic. “But why use a Dramorian arrowhead, and flint of all things? It gives the game away.”

Malcolm said let out a ragged breath as the physician began cleaning his wound. “The assassin must have made do with what material he had.”

“Most would have taken a look at the shaft and fletching and assumed Oceanic make,” the physician murmured.

“Seeing what their mind wanted to see,” Malcolm agreed. “Your inexperience, my Lady, was – ah – invaluable. You noted the color. _Fángon_ ,” he swore through gritted teeth.

“Lord Jarmon, would you fetch the Captain another glass of water?” the physician requested.

“What does that mean, then?” Fiona asked. “So they want to frame it as betrayal rather than an act of war – what, to confuse us?”

“In the long run, perhaps, but at present I am treating Captain Malcolm with an antidote used for desert poisons,” the physician continued. “It will make all the difference.”

“What would have happened had you assumed the assassin was Armathian?” Fiona asked as Jarmon handed Malcolm another glass.

“I would have used a different antidote, of course – one made from sweetflower.”

“And what would have happened then?” Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears.

The physician began to smear the salve over the wound, working it into the broken flesh. “The interaction of the poison and the sweetflower nectar would have stopped his heart.”

Fiona felt Jarmon take her hand in his, pressing it in silent reassurance. “Oh.”

“It seems we are even then, my Lady,” Malcolm said, face contorted in a combination of pain and wry amusement.

“I’m glad of it, Captain.”

The physician accepted the clean linen bandages proffered by his assistant and began to wrap the wound, occasionally laying a hand over it and stilling, concentration evident in his features. “I have done what I can for the swelling. If we monitor it we may be able to prevent infection, but Captain, you are under no circumstances to use that arm for anything more strenuous than feeding yourself.”

“The assassin—”

“You have plenty of underlings capable of following any leads. Odds are you won’t be in any shape to chase them down yourself; I can feel the antidote doing its work, but you will probably run a fever for the better part of the week.” He finished knotting off the bandage.

“I cannot leave Lady Fiona unguarded,” he protested. Though the impact of the poison had been dulled, his brow remained damp, eyes glassy.

“I’d hardly call her unguarded, what with this small platoon of soldiers in her apartments,” the physician said. “You must rest – no arguments.”

“You can have the settee in my sitting room, Captain,” Fiona offered. Jarmon frowned.

“No, no. If I am to be a burden, I will return to the fort,” Malcolm said, attempting to stand on legs that had gone weak.

“My assistant will accompany you there. I will be around to see you tomorrow,” the physician said, tone brusque now that the danger had passed.

“Captain—” Fiona began, cutting herself off as she realized that any protestations of his decision to return to the fort would sound absurd. “If you could,” she began again, regaining control of her voice, “I would have my sisters escorted to my apartments along with their handmaids. I want all of their meals brought here until we have a better grasp on what just happened.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“I would like my own detail doubled, if possible,” she continued, “particularly this afternoon.”

“My Lady?”

“As I will be hearing petitions, the council hall will need to be secured. We’ll have lanterns, if you please, since the windows must be barred.”

“You cannot intend on hearing petitions this afternoon,” Jarmon said, stunned.

“And why not?” she countered.

“An attempt was made upon your life; the assassin must know that he has failed, and will return to finish the job,” Jarmon replied.

“This afternoon’s petitioners are from one of the southern towns that flooded during the rains this year. They require aid, and their people cannot wait until you declare it safe for me to give it,” she countered.

“One village in the south is hardly worth—”

“My people need me, Lord Jarmon. When I accepted my father’s staff, I swore I would uphold this office to the best of my ability. That is what I will do. I will not let the scum that killed my father think they have won,” she snarled. “I will show them what I think of their methods. I will not give Anaphe any more reason to doubt me.”

She burned bright with fervent passion for her duty. Jarmon, Malcolm, the physician, and the guards found themselves swept up in her words in spite of themselves.

“The passion of youth,” Jarmon sighed. “You may be an idealist, my Lady, but let none call you a coward. Speak those same words again this afternoon and Anaphe will be proud of you.”

Malcolm tried to stand with more success, making his way over to Fiona on shaky legs. “Please reconsider, my Lady. Your devotion to your office is admirable, but none will think less of you for postponing council until the morrow.” Their eyes locked in an intense stare.

“None would think less of you for relinquishing command of the fort to your second until you are fully recovered, Captain, but will you do it?” she asked, unblinking.

“No, but—”

“How is my duty any different?” she demanded, rubbing at her temples again, headache back in full force.

Malcolm bowed his head. “Please be careful, my Lady, I—” he cut himself off, raising his eyes to meet hers. _I could not endure it if you were injured because I was not there to protect you_. She heard the words clear as a bell.

“I know. I will, Captain.”

He swallowed thickly. “Very well, then. I will post my best men in the council hall this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

 _Please be careful, Fiona – please, please, please._ “I will return to the fort, then, and carry out your orders as you asked, my Lady.”

“Good. May you have a speedy recovery, Captain.”

“My Lady.” He bent, slightly unsteady, to take her hand. If any noticed that the kiss that should have landed upon Conrad’s ring brushed her knuckles instead, they did not comment.

Malcolm straightened, nodding at Fiona before turning to take his leave on wobbly legs. He unbolted the door, physician’s assistant at his elbow, and crossed through the threshold into the hall. The physician and two guardsmen followed them out. Jarmon hesitated for a moment before joining them, resolving to carry out his viceroy’s orders in spite of his better judgment. Another guardsman shut and bolted the door behind them before resuming his silent post by the window.

Fiona sank back down onto her settee, dropping her head in her hands; alone save for Malcolm’s men and a splitting headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> Also known as clinker built, the edges of the hull planks on a lapstrake hull overlap and are joined at the end (in what's called a 'strake' -- let none say mariners are creative with their terminology). Lapstrake/clinker shouldn't be confused with carvel build, where planks are butted smoothly seam to seam and caulked to stay together. Lapstrake vessels, in general, displace less water, but carvel vessels can be built much, much larger -- hence the tradeoff. Lapstrake vessels would have been easier to beach (though not on rocky shores!) because of their shallow draft.


	20. Chapter 20

_The Season of Storms  
Ranán the 27; 2421_

Verne had, quite predictably, been furious with both of them. In between the cathedral and palace, where their journey was ritually blessed by the Queen and the High Priest, he had hissed a number of diatribes into Arden’s ear, including but not limited to: _‘You’re a Steward, no longer a common sailor’_ , _‘I cannot believe you thought it wise to give the Prince tacit approval in ignoring his betrothed’_ , _‘My informants saw you prancing about the floor in Black Wave with a lowborn woman, Arden – what were you thinking?’_ and, most memorably, _‘Cover up that love-bite on your neck; none can know that any brother of mine lay with a whore last night’_. Valory’s whispered _‘Did your brother just call me a whore?’_ in his other ear had very nearly made him lose face whilst standing upon Illen’s altar.

The procession down to the harbor had been a trial as well, though Arden felt somewhat vindicated watching Valory shift uncomfortably atop his horse. His murmured, _‘Is this your retribution for having to sit through that state dinner?’_ drew a snort from Arden and a sharp look from both Miran and Verne. _‘Of course not, my Lord,’_ Arden had replied, fighting to suppress the memory of Valory sitting astride him the night before. His attention was soon diverted by the cheering crowds that lined the streets, throwing flower petals before their horses in a gesture of goodwill and good luck. The noise and number of people had amazed Arden; it seemed as though the entire city had gathered to see them off.

At the docks they were the last to board their vessel; most of the Armathian fleet had already sailed off their moorings. The Admiral’s ship – a barque called _Venture_ – was raising the last of its canvas and slipping dock lines by the time Valory and Arden dismounted. Before them _Windjammer_ sat with mainsail already raised, crew at the ready and soldiers standing at attention at the rail.

A formal goodbye from Miran and Verne had sent them aboard, up the gangway, and to the quarterdeck where Callum had welcomed them heartily. With their dunnage stowed the day before there was little else to do; lines were slipped, sails raised, and _Windjammer_ set a course for Ithaka.

They had seen six complete watch rotations since then, falling immediately back into the comfortable habits developed before reaching Armathia. After a day and a half on board, the weeks in the capital seemed almost like a dream. Valory frequently caught Arden fingering his pendant, reminding himself of all the things that had changed since they last set foot aboard the schooner. The familiarity of the surroundings made it easy to forget.

However, a few things about _Windjammer_ were quite different the second time around. For one, most of the Ship’s Library had been dismantled and relocated to the House of Stewards, though some of Arden’s favorite volumes – including the Chronicles – remained aboard. Valory’s men slept together in a cabin in the forward compartment, hammocks strung up at odd angles. _Windjammer_ ’s crew had moved back to the fo’c’sle, happy to regain their usual berths. The remaining cabins in the mid and forward compartments were filled to the brim with Armathian infantry. Hand-picked for battle with the Sea-Witch King, they got on far better with the crew than the last company of Kythrian soldiers.

For the sake of appearances, Valory had strung up a hammock in Arden’s cabin. His own men knew that the only regular occupant of the hammock was Mizzen, but readily agreed to keep that bit of knowledge to themselves when pressed. That did not, however, stop Ehrin from letting out a wolf-whistle when the two of them emerged from the cabin that afternoon, having kipped briefly following their early watch.

Arden poked his head into the galley where she was stacking recently-backed savory patties on a large tray. “Discretion, Galley Tyrant,” he warned.

Ehrin shrugged. “None are down here. They’re all on deck, trying to convince my father that it wouldn’t be at all inappropriate to race the navy schooner to Redrock.”

“Jonah’s idea?” Arden asked.

“Who else?” she grinned. “What d’you say – think we can take them?”

“Considering that they’d be unaware we were racing, I’d say we could.”

“They’ll pick up on it after the first few times we steal their wind, I think. Then it’d be real sport,” she argued.

“I hate to ruin any sport, but any such tomfoolery is best left to the return trip.”

“That’s what Da will say as well.” She stacked the last of the patties before loading the baking sheet down with uncooked ones and shoving them into the oven.

“What are those?” Valory asked, eyeing the patties with curiosity.

“Minced beef buns for tonight’s meal, to be served with fried green plantains and gravy. Nothing special, though it’s an Armathian recipe so I’m hoping the lads will—hey!” she protested, catching Valory as his hand strayed towards the plate. “You scoundrel, get your hands off my buns!”

Arden burst into laughter. At the look of indignation on Ehrin’s face Valory defended, “I promise you, my Lady of the Galley, I have no untoward designs upon your buns.” He barely got the words out with a straight face.

“That’s it,” she said in feigned exasperation, brandishing her dishtowel, “out of my galley, before it’s _your_ buns that get a tanning.”

Arden leaned forward to give her a big, smacking kiss on the cheek. From above their heads, Callum’s call of “Prepare to gybe!” rang out. Ehrin shot a worried look at the oven.

“We’ll take this one, Ehrin – stay down here and tend to your buns,” Arden quipped over his shoulder as he turned to fly up the companionway.

“Sod off, Jack!” her voice drifted up after him.

“You like winding her up, don’t you?” Valory asked.

“Been doing it for years; she’s a good sport. Fun, isn’t it?” he grinned.

A cursory look around deck saw most of the soldiers attempting to get out of the way of _Windjammer_ ’s crew as they made ready to cross the stern through the wind. Arden rolled his eyes as they snapped to attention and saluted the moment he and Valory appeared topside.

“We could use you on the jib sheets,” Niko said from his place crouched on the midships housetop.

“Aye,” Arden nodded, glancing at Valory. “Working, or lazy?”

“I’ll take the working sheet.”

“Oh, sure, and leave me all the hard work,” he groused, making for the leeward rail.

“Ready to gybe?” Callum called as they assumed their positions. At their affirmative shout, he threw the helm over with an enthusiastic, “Gybe-ho!”

It didn’t take an Empathetic enchantment to feel the surprise of the assembled soldiers as Prince and Steward crossed the headsail quickly and efficiently. Arden trimmed the jib for a broad reach before coiling and dropping the line so it would run free.

Valory joined him on the now-windward side of the deck as he toed the monkey’s fist at the end of the sheet away from a scupper. Together they proceeded back to the quarterdeck where Jonah was wheedling Callum from the top of the main companionway.

“Just one afternoon’s race, then,” he begged.

Callum shook his head. “Get your noggin on straight, lad – we’re on our way to war.”

“We won’t reach Redrock Bay for the better part of a week,” Jonah protested.

“Enough, lad. I said no.”

“So much for diversion,” Jonah sighed.

“There’s other things we could get up to,” Little offered from his position atop a deck box.

“Such as?”

“A bit of celebration, perhaps, if the Captain and our Commander allow,” Little continued, warming to the topic.

“Of what?” Callum queried. “We’ll have our typical ritual the night before battle, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“Nah, sir. You see, our own Imran just marked the beginning of his thirty-fifth year this past week, but with all the preparations, we’ve not had the opportunity to celebrate it proper-like.”

Imran’s head snapped up from the leeward rail where he had been hunched. “ _Little_ ,” he hissed.

“He doesn’t like being reminded that he’s getting older, but I wager he’d stop his whining if Miss Ehrin saw fit to whip up a batch of those ginger cookies on account of his day and all.”

“Well now, that’s a different story, isn’t it? As it so happens we’ve got a celebration of our own coming up in a little over a week, haven’t we Lars?” Callum asked.

Lars shrugged. “My day is the seventh of Erád. Another year older—”

“But not another year wiser, I’d wager,” Niko interrupted, bounding up the quarterdeck steps.

“The Ithakan has the right of it,” Imran muttered miserably from his perch.

Jonah let out a bark of laughter. “Who pissed in your grog, Dramorian?”

“Laugh all you like when you have a Commander who hasn’t aged in a decade.”

Jonah considered this point, cocking his head. “Sire, your day is in the Season of Heat, is it not?”

“The first of Fanán, yes,” Valory confirmed.

“Fanán, like your Steward,” Callum pointed out.

“That’s right,” Valory murmured, “our days are close – I had forgotten. You’re the twenty-ninth, aren’t you? That was the day before we met in Anaphe,” he mused. He wondered whether that was why Conrad had gotten so melancholy with thoughts of his brother that evening.

“It was. There . . . may have been some revelry the night before,” Arden allowed.

Lars let out a belly-laugh. “Well sir, now the secret’s out – we were all a bit wretched when you first came aboard.”

“Although I couldn’t necessarily condone a repeat of what must have been a rather messy night, I suppose we should mark Imran and Lars’ days somehow,” Valory said.

“Aye,” Callum agreed, “that we’ll do. A spot of music and storytelling and an extra rum ration? I’m sure my girl would be happy to whip up a special meal for us all.”

“That sounds like just the thing, Captain,” Valory nodded, satisfied. “It’ll give us the chance to finally goad Imran into celebration of his day.”

“We’ll toast his health until he cracks a smile, sir,” Lars promised.

“He’s a right bastard, but he’s one of ours now, and we wouldn’t’ dream of letting his day go unmarked,” Jonah added. At the railing Imran colored, both pleased and embarrassed by the attention. Valory heard him mutter a few snatches of Dramorian – something about useless Oceanic traditions.

“Settled, then,” Callum nodded. “Lars, take the wheel – I’ll let Ehrin know. She’ll want some time to prepare, so let’s call it for first night watch, two days hence.”

“We’ll have the soldiers up for it as well, so long as they’ve learned their lesson about staying under the booms and away from the sheets,” Arden said. “They might not know Imran and Lars themselves, but I’m sure we can all do with a celebration of birth.”

“Yes,” Valory agreed, “and the hope that all of us will live to see our own days come again.”

Callum grinned, pausing in the companionway. “That’s something we can all drink to, sire.”

“And what more could a sailor ask for than that?”

…

“Now remember,” Arden said from the prow of the launch, “we don’t know what we’ll see when we get into town. I’m of the mind that any Westernese presence would be obvious, but don’t discount the possibility that they have spies of their own.”

“Do you really think they’ve made it all the way over from Elona?” Niko asked, words coming out rhythmically as he rowed.

“I hope not. It seems unlikely that the Januzians have enough men to hold the fort at Elona _and_ come to capture Redrock, but that sort of assumption could get us into trouble.”

“I could find out right quick. I have some cousins in Redrock,” Niko offered.

“Trust no one, Niko. I know it’s your family, but for the sake of our mission—”

“You don’t think any cousins of mine would be bought by the Westernese,” Niko spluttered.

“No, I don’t – not if they’ve got your temperament – but we cannot afford the risk. I won’t ask you not to go see them, but you must keep to the story that our commission was bought by a Kythrian merchant. No mention of the Prince, no mention of our trip to Armathia, and no mention of my given name. That goes for the lot of you.”

“Aye, sir,” they agreed, Niko with more reluctance than the rest.

As they approached the wharf, they noted that the usual morning bustle was rather subdued. They were met at the dock by an extremely wary harbormaster who relaxed only when he recognized the familiar faces of _Windjammer_ ’s crew. They were let ashore with a warning that the people of Redrock weren’t taking too kindly to strangers of late, and split into small groups in order to reconnoiter.

Arden admired the town while Valory, playing the part of a deckhand, helped Ehrin secure the oars. Redrock Bay had been a trading outpost for centuries. Its proximity to Armathia made it an ideal jumping off point for trade to the isles. Although it wasn’t fortified as Elona was, Redrock was defended by a handful of Ithakan warships that flanked its wide, deep harbor.

Redrock got its name from the color of the steep cliffs that surrounded the bay on all sides. The town’s wealthy merchants and minor nobles had their estates in the hills overlooking the harbor. The plaza – similar in design to Armathia’s inner city square – lay at the foot of the hills. That was where Arden, Valory, and Ehrin were headed to see what information they could gather.

At an officer’s dinner the previous evening, Arden had persuaded the Admiral that it was folly to blindly send their cavalrymen ashore: no matter how certain they were that the Westernese presence was confined to the eastern side of the island. In an attempt to keep their plans a secret, the Armathian fleet hove-to out of sight of Ithaka’s inhabited coastline. _Windjammer_ , on the other hand, anchored out in the bay. Although her commissions tended to be mercenary in nature, it wasn’t unusual for them to pick up coin by doing some trading. That was their cover for entering the town in search of information. If Arden’s suspicions were confirmed – and the Januzian presence was limited to the fortified walls of Elona – they would be able to put their cavalrymen ashore just after nightfall.

“Ready, Jack?” Ehrin asked, hopping back onto the dock. Valory, dressed in plain linens with long hair unbound, held out his arm for her to take.

They ambled up the streets together, exchanging occasional greetings with sailors who recognized _Windjammer_ ’s First Mate. All three noted the unusual quiet of the streets on the way to the plaza. They were traversing Redrock’s market district, yet only one out of every three stalls and storefronts seemed to be open. It did not bode well.

Unnerved by the quiet, Arden led them into one of the few open shops – a chandlery. Arden knew the chandler’s daughter. She sold homemade candies and bonbons that she stocked behind the counter in secret whenever her father was away. She was also an inveterate gossip, which was exactly what Arden was planning on exploiting.

Sure enough she stood at the counter when they entered, and smiled happily when she caught sight of Arden and Ehrin. Arden stifled a grin at the shamelessly speculative look she gave Valory.

“Father’s at the market for the morning, so I have run of the place,” she announced, ducking to pull out jar after jar of colorful hard candies and treats.

“Those look lovely. I tried the recipe you gave me, but on a galley stove . . .” Ehrin shrugged. From the sideways glance she threw him, Arden knew that she understood why they were there.

“It’s just practice, like I always say,” the girl replied. She was about Sybina’s age, tan, with a mountain of blonde curls that betrayed her family’s northern heritage.

“I don’t know where you find the time, what with your father looking over your shoulder and all,” Ehrin said, releasing Valory’s arm and dropping her elbows onto the countertop. Arden nudged Valory over towards the selection of candles and fittings, making as though he was absorbed in his errand.

“Well,” the girl leaned forward conspiratorially, Ithakan accent clipping her vowels, “just between you and me, Miss Ehrin, all the men have been busy these past few weeks.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve heard about what happened in Elona, haven’t you?”

“We received word when we were on Kythria. Is everyone alright?”

The girl’s face grew serious. “Word is things are bad over there,” she said, glancing around as though to ensure none were listening in on the conversation. “They say the Admiral is dead, and that the town was sacked, but nary a one wants to go and make certain.”

“So they haven’t come here, then?”

“Not yet, thank the Gods. My father and some of the other men are talking about forming a militia, though.”

“To retake the fort?”

“Goodness, no,” the girl touched her brow. “For our own sakes.”

“You think there’s an attack coming?”

The girl leaned forward again, voice hushed. “A patrol came over the hill the other day – all men with that funny short hair. Some of our boys went up with the navy men we’ve got left and ambushed them. A few got away, but we haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”

“Well that’s good news at least,” Ehrin said, glancing sidelong at Arden. “So if the Admiral’s been murdered, who commands Redrock’s men?”

“Captain Willis, I reckon; he’s the Admiral’s man in the bay. Right handsome devil, that one – not that he’d spare a glance for a chandler’s daughter, mind you.”

“Is the Captain aboard his vessel?” Ehrin asked, toying with her braid.

“No, he’s in the bay, but he’s not one for making merry these days.”

Ehrin let out a dramatic sigh. “Pity, though Illen knows a Captain’s above my station as well.” Dropping to a whisper, she asked, “Has he got any Lieutenants?”

“A fair few,” the girl smirked.

“And they’re all in port then, are they?”

“I see them coming and going in their launches; they’re keeping the navy vessels manned in secret. Some of them will have leave tonight, if that’s your aim.” The girl cast a glance over at Valory. “Though I don’t see why you’re fixing to look elsewhere.”

“He and his wife have seven children. _Seven_. Handsome as he is, I wouldn’t want to take the chance,” she lied, fighting a grin at the look on Valory’s face.

“Shame,” the girl sighed. “Now then, do you fancy any sweets?”

“I’ll have some of the orange and lemon,” Ehrin said, catching Arden’s eye and knowing he’d heard all he wanted. “Oh, and do you have any of the cinnamon? The ones with a bit of spice to them?”

The girl indicated a jar of red-brown candies. “I’ll put ‘em in some wax paper for you, if you like.”

“Can you wrap the cinnamon separately?”

“Of course, Miss Ehrin. Now tell me – what’s happening at Illen’s Arm? We had a Kilcoranian merchant by a few weeks past with news of an attack over there. It’s been all talk since then, something about the Prince commanding the Kythrian fleet. I hear you were there. It must have been so exciting!”

“We did see some action, but Illen’s Arm didn’t fall,” Ehrin said, leaving out as much detail as possible.

“And the Prince? Did you meet him? I’ve heard he’s just gorgeous,” she sighed, bundling the last of Ehrin’s sweets. Arden stifled a laugh, looking up just in time to catch Valory’s eye roll.

“I saw him from afar, but you’re right: he’s very handsome indeed.” Ehrin put on a wistful expression. “But he’s mad for one from back home, they say, so there goes that dream of wooing royalty.” Valory’s lips twitched at Ehrin’s words, phrased to be technically correct. He gave Arden’s elbow a quick press when neither woman was looking.

The girl let out a sympathetic noise, taking Ehrin’s proffered Royals and slipping them into her skirt. “Too bad about that. Anything else for you?”

“That’s it for us. You take care, now.”

“Mighty kind of you to stop by, Miss Ehrin. You too, Jack.”

They bid the chandler’s daughter goodbye and slipped back out into the street where Ehrin took Valory’s arm once more. They walked in silence for a few moments before an odd thought struck Arden.

“You hate those spicy candies,” he said, gesturing to one of her parcels. “You won’t even get them for us when we’re in port – that rubbish you say about it being your galley and therefore your preferred meals.”

Ehrin frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re buying them for someone, aren’t you? One of the soldiers? Miss Ehrin, do you have your eye on someone?” he teased, a huge grin splitting his face.

Ehrin turned away to hide her blush. “Leave off, Jack.”

“You won’t even give me a hint?”

Valory cleared his throat. “Arden, leave the girl alone.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she said, shooting an annoyed look Arden’s way.

“Of course,” Valory replied. “And please, be sure to give the Commodore my regards when you bring him his treat.’

Ehrin nearly tripped over her own feet, jaw dropping open at the Prince’s words. Arden snorted in amusement. “Still taking your meals with him then, are you? I doubt you have any Kythrian soldiers to blame for it this time.”

“The treatment he has received – meals included, mind you – has been appalling. My Lord I know you were too busy after the return to Armathia to get down there much yourself, but the conditions of his imprisonment are not fitting for an officer.”

Valory frowned. “Is that why I smelled your spice cakes the last time I was there? You’ve been feeding him.”

“I have been,” she said, chin raised, defiantly staring the Prince in the eye.

“Good of you to point out a lapse in our treatment of a prisoner, but I don’t appreciate you taking matters into your own hands.”

“I feel responsible for him,” she admitted.

“And you like him, don’t you?” Arden asked, voice devoid of mockery.

“He’s not so terrible, no. I enjoy talking to him. It’s interesting. His people are so different from ours, yet so similar,” she said, struggling for words to explain what had drawn her back to Félix’s cell time and again.

“He attacked your home.” Arden’s voice was soft, gentle. “I’d have thought you would hate him for that.”

Ehrin let out a long sigh. “I did. I do still, in a way. I just know that, though he won’t tell me everything that brought him here, he was doing what he thought was right.”

“I can understand his motives as well as yours, Ehrin. I won’t forbid you from seeing him if you recount your conversations to me,” Valory said.

Ehrin’s stomach twisted at the idea of spying on Félix, repeating all of his impassioned words about Belen to another. “I can’t do that, my Lord.”

Valory’s brows rose. “Is that so?”

“When I first went to his cell, he’d barely look at me. He thought I was there as a spy. I swore I wasn’t. Please don’t make a liar out of me.”

“Your priorities may require adjusting,” Valory warned.

“What if I only told you about things that would be important for Oceana?” Ehrin offered.

“I do not mean this as insult, but how do you propose to determine what is of import and what is not?”

Ehrin mulled over the question, chewing at her lower lip. “I knew that the bit about the conference in Zaránd was important, didn’t I? I can tell you if it’s to do with politics. You can tell me what the questions are that you want answers to, and if he gives me any inadvertently, I’ll tell you as well.” Her mouth hardened. “But I will not interrogate him for you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Valory said. “But you are willing to report anything within the parameters that I set, yes?”

Ehrin sighed. She hated the idea of going back on the spirit of her word, but she knew that things would most likely be worse for Félix if she couldn’t come by at all. She told herself that she cared about him through altruism and naught more, and settled the matter within her own mind. “Alright,” she agreed.

“Very well, then – take him the candies if you so choose,” Valory nodded, satisfied.

“Be careful, Ehrin,” Arden warned. Ehrin knew that he was speaking of another matter entirely. “He is the only enemy officer who showed no sign of manipulation by the Sea-Witch King. If he can resist the machinations of such a powerful creature, he can resist your overtures of kindness whilst milking you for every favor he can glean.”

Ehrin wanted to contradict him on principle – _Félix has too much honor for such a thing_ – but she knew he was only looking out for her. Moreover, she knew that he could very well be right. “I will,” she promised.

“And I had better be getting one of those lemon candies,” Arden continued.

Laughing, she batted his hands away. “Get your own!”

“I suppose I should leave you to your candies, since you did such a fine job of plying the chandler’s girl for information,” Arden admitted.

“Yes. I’d like to get up to the square and see what we can find out regarding the ambush,” Valory added. “Then we’ll have a greater picture of the state that Redrock is in.”

…

“This is madness,” Francis whispered as Imran scaled the wall of Captain Willis’ townhouse.

“Willis is as trustworthy a contact as we can hope to have, but we mustn’t be seen making a social call,” Arden replied.

“So breaking in as he’s on his way home – that seemed a better option?”

“Keep your voice down, Admiral,” Valory chided from his position crouched behind them. He watched Imran’s effortless progress to the attic window with one eye while the other regarded the hooded forms of Little and Gabriel standing on the other side of the street.

“We could have gone to see him aboard his vessel. I doubt his men would be the type to talk, given what I’ve heard about Willis as an officer,” Francis protested.

“I am not willing to place my trust in them. Not when so many lives hang in the balance,” Valory replied. He cut a menacing figure, hood casting his face into shadow.

“But breaking into the man’s home –”

“Nothing my men and I haven’t done before.”

Francis gaped. “You, sir?”

“Intelligence won’t gather itself, Francis.” As he spoke, Imran had noiselessly opened the window and slipped inside, shutting it behind him.

“He’s in,” Arden murmured.

Little and Gabe had seen it as well. They drew out of the shadows, chatting and stumbling down the street as though they were on their way home from the tavern. As they approached the Captain’s house, Little tripped. Gabriel, playing the part of the conscientious friend, pushed him down to sit on the stoop by the Captain’s front door. They were close enough that they would hear the click when the latch was unlocked from inside.

Less than a minute later, Gabe perked up and glanced up and down the deserted street. Satisfied that they were unobserved, he pushed the now-unlocked door of Willis’ home open and he and Little hustled inside. They would join Imran and spend the next several minutes ensuring that the house was vacant, securing any servants well away from Willis’ parlor.

Francis played nervously with his talisman as they waited. Valory and Arden remained silent, motionless, each running through scenarios of the different ways the evening might play out. After several long minutes the sign came; a match was struck in the window nearest the street, then blown out just after sparking to life.

Valory and Arden stood soundlessly, moving out of the shadows and gesturing to Francis to follow them. Certain that they remained unobserved, they made for the door nearest their position which swung inward to allow their entry.

Once inside Valory threw off his cloak, revealing the unmistakable livery of his position. Next to him, Arden was adjusting the collar of his deep blue waistcoat; the silver threaded embroidery, new as it was, still scratched at his neck. It was a nuisance, yes, but came with the advantage of making it immediately and abundantly clear who he was.

“The parlor is this way,” Gabe said, materializing out of the shadows to show them deeper into the house. Little passed them with a nod, moving to take up his post at the door.

“Imran?” Valory asked as they entered an elegantly appointed room at the end of the hall.

“In the kitchen. The housekeeper was here, making ready for the Captain’s dinner. Imran had her drink the tea with the sleeping draught in it. She was an honest sort, but your orders were to allow none to overhear.”

“You did well. I trust Imran has taken care with her?”

“We determined that the room beneath the stairs is hers; he carried her there once she began to nod off,” Gabe replied.

Valory’s head whipped around in the direction of the front door as the clap of footsteps sounded on the steps. “Your position,” he reminded Gabriel.

“I’ll be with Imran at the top of the stairs,” he said, flying light footed to his post just as the key turned in the lock.

One pair of booted feet crossed the threshold before shutting and bolting the door. The candles in the hallway all flickered to life. _Firestarter_. The Captain trod slowly in the direction of the parlor, which, based on is contents, also doubled as his sitting room, calling out for his housekeeper along the way.

Valory felt Arden and Francis tense beside him as the Captain appeared in the doorway, backlit by the glow of candlelight spilling from the hallway. Willis, lacking the power that Arden possessed, had to raise a hand in the direction of the sconces around the room in order to exercise his enchantment. He couldn’t prevent his face from betraying his surprise when the first of the candles lit, casting light upon his visitors.

“Peace, Captain,” Valory said as the man’s hand strayed towards his cutlass.

Only then did Willis finally take a close look at the men standing before him. His eyes stalled on Francis’ uniform coat, epaulettes announcing both his station and place of office. The incredulity written plainly across Willis’ features gave way to relief as he looked upon Valory and Arden.

“My Lords,” he bowed his head, body relaxing though his eyes remained watchful. “You’ve come for Elona.”

“We have. We were hoping you could tell us what we’ll find when we get there,” Valory said.

“Forgive us the intrusion, but I’m sure you understand the need for absolute secrecy,” Arden added. He didn’t miss the assessing look that Willis gave him.

“That was wise of you, my Lords, but to my knowledge our ranks have not been infiltrated by the enemy.” He gestured for them to sit, leaving the wingback chair for the Prince.

Valory, unwilling to usurp his host’s seat, lowered himself onto the sofa next to his Steward. “How certain are you?”

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“And the lives of others?” he asked.

Willis’ gaze flicked back and forth between the three men. “Are you planning on basing your attack from Redrock?”

“We had considered it,” Valory said, unwilling to tip their hand before he had more of a feel for the Ithakan Captain.

“The roads are not well guarded, but I can’t say for certain how vulnerable a marching company would be at a time like this. We know that the Westernese attempted at least one patrol outside Elona’s walls.”

“It sounded as though they were discouraged,” Arden said.

Willis nodded. “You have been talking to the townsfolk, it seems. Yes, the scouting party was repelled. I had thought it only a matter of time until they returned with more men, but Elona seems to be keeping them occupied.”

“How are things over there?” Francis asked.

“Bad,” Willis admitted. “Some managed to flee when the harbor was attacked. They’ve locked down the fort and town gates since then, permitting none to enter or leave. A scant handful of those who reached Redrock are trustworthy sources of information; they brought word that both the Admiral and Master Empath were murdered, but were unsure who else had fallen to Januzian fury. Those who ran did so early on in order to escape the torture that was visited upon their fellows.”

“I cannot condemn them for that,” Valory said, face grim. “They have dismantled the town’s defenses and hold its people prisoner, then?”

“That is what I’m given to understand, yes. To be frank, my Lord, I had not thought help would arrive quite so soon. Neither did the Westernese, I wager, else they would be keeping a sharper eye on our shores.”

“They must not know of the communication we received at Illen’s Arm,” Arden said.

“Our presence will catch them by surprise, then. Good.” Valory turned his focus back to Willis. “If we were to put men ashore, could you absorb them into the town well enough to avoid detection by any Westernese patrols? There are surely more to come.”

Willis worried at his lower lip with his teeth. “How many men?”

“A company of cavalrymen.”

Willis frowned. “That’s an awful lot of horses, my Lord.”

“They would need to be stabled throughout Redrock, of course. Perhaps some of your wealthy have spaces in their stables,” Arden suggested.

“That might work,” Willis admitted. “The families in the hills will be happy to have the additional protection, as well. How long?”

“Until the eve of the attack. I think you understand why I cannot name the day to you,” Valory replied.

“Of course, my Lord.” He paused. “Do you require the aid of my vessels?”

“If any can be spared – but I do understand that Redrock is your first priority.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I will think on it. I assume you intend to move your men ashore tonight, then?”

“The vessels bearing our cavalrymen have already slipped into your harbor. They await our signal,” Arden said.

“I can have some of my men escort them to locations around Redrock. They can rest there until their services are needed,” Willis offered. “It would be the most discreet method. If my men are with them the townsfolk will be more cooperative, and there will be no trace that they were ever here come morn.”

“We do not have many hours before sunrise; I hope we can make it so. It is of the utmost importance that our vessels are not sighted as we leave the bay.”

“I will do my best, Lord Conrad. You may give your men the signal at your leisure.”

Valory felt Arden stiffen at the use of his brother’s name. It was an easy and understandable mistake to make, given the circumstances, but Arden clearly hadn’t expected it.

“Conrad was my brother,” he said, voice wooden. “I am Arden bar Miran, Steward to Prince Valory.”

Willis’ brows inched up his forehead. “Lord Arden? Weren’t you . . . forgive me, my Lord, but I’ve heard . . .” he trailed off.

“I was away from Armathia for many years, yes. I only recently stepped up to fill my brother’s position following his untimely death at the hands of our enemies in Anaphe.” Arden’s voice remained emotionless. “I assume that news of his murder has not yet come this far.”

“No, my Lord,” Willis said. “Or perhaps the dispatches were intercepted by the Januzians.”

“A distinct possibility,” Arden agreed.

“Forgive my mistake.”

“Not at all, Captain; you had no way of knowing that circumstances had changed.”

“Thank you, my Lord. It is a fine thing that you have returned, if I may presume to say so,” Willis added.

“Kind of you, Captain. I only ask that you not make mention of my presence – and that of my Lord Valory – until we have long since retaken Elona in Oceana’s name,” Arden said.

“Of course,” Willis agreed. “I’ll not mention the Armathian presence in our waters save to those who harbor your cavalrymen in the interim.”

“Your discretion is appreciated,” Arden replied as Valory said,

“That settled, we now must race to bed down our company before dawn. Do not take our haste for ingratitude, Captain, but . . .”

“Understood, my Lord. In the spirit of such discretion, perhaps you would prefer to exit out the back of the house? I can show you through the alleyway myself.”

They stood, following Willis towards the hall. Arden dearly wished he could have seen the look on Willis’ face when Imran appeared in the doorway.

“Stand down, Captain; this is my Lieutenant,” Valory said.

Willis froze, hand already on the hilt of his cutlass. “Your Lieutenant? My Lord?”

Imran bowed stiffly. “Captain, I regret to inform you that you will need to make your own meal tonight. Your housekeeper is in her quarters.”

“What?”

“Sleeping draught,” Imran explained, stepping aside as Gabriel joined him in the doorway. “It was necessary.”

While Willis gaped at Imran, Gabriel and Valory exchanged a quick nod. The Empath, who had been carefully listening in on their conversation, had done his best to confirm both Willis’ veracity and good intentions. Arden felt himself relax. Though on some level he had known that Willis was loyal to the crown, the confirmation was relieving. He knew that a single sign from Gabriel would have resulted in the Captain’s immediate death; one which Arden would not have relished watching.

“I suppose I’ll be heading back out to the tavern, then,” Willis muttered.

“Apologies, Captain,” Valory said, though it was clear that he felt no remorse for his orders.

“Unnecessary, my Lord. Now if you would, the exit is this way.” When he turned into the hallway, Willis appeared unsurprised to see Little’s large form looming between them and the exit. Little stepped aside, allowing Willis to make his way towards the back of the house.

Imran approached the door first, coming to stand before Willis. “I will give the sign, yes?” he said, looking over his shoulder at Valory.

“Yes Imran, thank you.”

“My Lord,” Willis began, eyes trained on Imran’s chest. Imran, following Willis’ stare, saw the small wooden idol that hung from a leather cord about his neck. The idol was a gift from _Windjammer_ ’s crew, bestowed during the revelry that had taken place several nights earlier. It was meant to mark the anniversary of his birth. The craftsmanship was Niko’s, but they had presented it all together. It was the kindest gift he had received in recent memory.

It must have jarred Willis to see an idol of Arrar carved with obvious Ithakan craftsmanship.

“Yes Captain, I am from Dramor,” Imran said, a bitter bite to his voice. “Say what you will.”

“Lieutenant Imran has been with me for ten years, now. He has made it clear where his true loyalties lie. Anything we have said tonight is safe with him,” Valory said. Willis’ eyes hadn’t left the pendant.

“That was carved by an Ithakan,” Willis finally said.

“It was a gift.” Imran’s lips were pressed into a thin line.

“Imran’s day just passed. We had a spot of a celebration,” Arden explained.

Willis shrugged. The Dramorian couldn’t be half bad, if he had inspired an Ithakan to carve out an idol of Arrar in his name. “Happy day, Lieutenant – belated though it may be.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Off you go then. Be careful to avoid the house on the opposite corner; there’s a doddering old gossip who lives there, and she’s always watching out for scandal between the panels of her kitchen curtains.”

“Yes, sir,” Imran said, saluting the Captain before sneaking out the back door and into the street. A few moments later, a brief flick of flame came from an alleyway to their right.

“Thank you for your help, Captain. Hopefully we will meet again under more pleasant circumstances,” Valory said, clasping Willis’ arm.

“Likewise, my Lords. May the wind be at your back.”

“And at yours.”

With those words, Valory and his men disappeared into the night.


	21. Chapter 21

_The Season of Peace  
Erád the 3; 2421_

_The vision of Valory’s torture at the hands of the Sea-Witch King had rocked Siath to the core. After his bellowed demand, the creature disappeared and left him alone in the damp, quiet dark. He had no way of telling how much time had passed, but it was long enough to allow his thoughts to begin a mad, obsessive spiral regarding the things he had Seen and heard._

_He had made the mistake of assuming that his demands would grant him an immediate audience with the Witch King’s master, allowing him to settle the matter of his imprisonment – and his brother’s safety – once and for all. As time ticked by and it became clear he had misjudged the situation, he found himself wishing that he had not been so cavalier in his dismissal of the creature. The Witch King was a terrible sight to behold, but it was still better than the black nothingness of the locker._

_He had taken to reciting bits of songs, poetry, and stories in his head – anything he could remember to both pass the time and prevent the sensory deprivation from driving him mad. He had long since decided that he would not give the creature the satisfaction of hearing him ramble aloud to himself, and so he ensured that, though his lips moved, no sound came out. The act reminded him of his Steward, which was a comforting thought, if sad. He could have used the company of Verne’s acerbic wit in a place as dismal as this._

_This time, when the vision came, it caught him off guard. A brief shimmer of silver and he was back in the arid, dried river bed he had Seen what felt like ages ago. The chasm that split the ground between him and the fortressed city seemed no less ominous than it had before. He stopped himself from peering into its depths, unwilling to see the source of the shadows that writhed there. He knew without looking that they would be a terrible sight to behold._

_Another whisper of silver across his vision and he was standing in a vaulted chamber peppered with column-lined archways. Based on the color of the stonework, Siath assumed that he was somewhere within the city walls. The chamber bore a vague resemblance to the interior of the cathedral in Armathia, a thought that made him feel profoundly uneasy. There was something perturbing about the intricate beauty of the carved columns and painted ceilings, yet he found that he couldn’t quite parse it._

_He moved freely throughout the chamber, studying the artwork as his feet pulled him inexorably toward the place where an altar should be located. Most of the paintings above his head depicted desert scenes, though some were of wildlife, of battle, or of priests paying tribute. The columns, however, were another matter entirely. They were carved to depict foul monsters, some of which Siath recognized from the ancient illustrated copies of the Eastern Scriptures kept within the palace library._

_He spent several minutes studying a particularly terrifying creature with powerful hind legs and a mouth full of wickedly curved fangs. It looked as though it could eviscerate a man on the spot. Siath sent a silent word of appreciation to his ancestors who had walked the Eastern World alongside these ancient predators._

_He turned past another column only to realize that the path to the altar was finally clear. In place of the carved statues and piles of offerings he had expected, however, a stepped platform ran the length of the far wall. In the center a throne had been carved into the rock. The back of the throne stretched all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, its lines embellished with the snarling faces of jewel-encrusted monsters and devils. As he stared, trying to find meaning in what he Saw, a whisper of movement behind him drew his attention. He turned, something ice cold prickling down his back. There was no one behind him._

_“Siath.” The rough rasp of a voice made the hair on the back of his neck stand up._

_He turned back to the throne. Its previously unoccupied seat was now filled by a tall figure cloaked in desert robes. Based on its size, Siath knew that it could not possibly be a man. “You are the master of the Sea-Witch King. I am told that you seek an audience with me,” he said, willing his feet to take him closer to the throne despite the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach._

_“I seek an ally,” the figure said._

_As Siath drew nearer, he was able to make out more details. The hooded shroud could not disguise the unnatural width of the figures shoulders, nor the crooked hunch of its massive back._

_“Why me?” Siath asked._

_“You are a man of much influence. You have a vision for Oceana. With my help, you could see it come to pass.”_

_Siath saw a brief flash of fertile fields, reefs teeming with fish, rejoicing and laughter in the lower city circles. “And what do you demand in return?”_

_The figure leaned forward. A shaft of light fell upon the hood obscuring its face, though shadows prevented Siath from making out any features._

_“Your allegiance.”_

_“I am the King of Oceana; I can pledge my allegiance to none other than my own people,” Siath said._

_“If you swear yourself to me, your people will want for nothing. I will bring you peace at the Border. I will expel the Westernese from your isles. I will rid your highways of creatures from the deep.”_

_“I cannot help but think that those are empty promises. How can one man do so much?” Siath knew he was goading the creature by likening it to a man._

_The figure rose, throwing off its hood. The face that emerged was horribly disfigured, shaped like a man’s but with the twisted beak of a buzzard where a mouth and nose should have been. The skin of the face was bone-white and taut, mottled as though it had been exposed to fire. Atop the head were two thick, ridged horns, rising from its hairline and pointing backwards. Between them sat an ornate crown._

_The most unsettling thing about the creature, however, were its eyes. Bottomless, empty sockets stared at Siath, who drew back a step. He broke out in a cold sweat._

_“I am no man. There is no limit to my power.” A pair of gnarled, leathery wings unfurled from the creature’s back, poised menacingly about its shoulders. From their mangled appearance Siath doubted the creature could fly, but decided he’d rather not test the theory._

_“Be that as it may,” he swallowed, blood running cold with terror, “I am not so naïve as to believe that you have the best interests of Oceana and its people at heart. I’m afraid your offer is not enough.”_

_The creature’s laughter sent an icy shiver down Siath’s spine. “You are not so naïve, perhaps, as I had expected. Very well, then. For you I can promise more. Pledge your allegiance to me. Call me your Lord, and deliver Oceana into my hands, and you will be given the kind of power of which you have never dared to dream.”_

_“I am perfectly satisfied with the gift Illen gave me,” Siath replied, gaining resolve as the creature finally made his demands clear._

_“Illen’s gifts are nothing compared to what I can offer,” the creature growled._

_“Illen—”_

_“Do not say that name to me.” The ice in the creature’s voice made something twist in the depths of Siath’s gut. “Swear off those creatures. Make me your Lord and master and I will give you a gift they never would have bestowed. I know what you want, Siath bar Adrianth. I know how you have longed for a second talent, how you despised your jealousy of your brother’s gifts – gifts he never even wanted! Think of what you could do with such abilities.” The creature’s voice had gone low, seductive._

_“Telekinesis is an admirable thing, to be sure, but I’m afraid it doesn’t much interest me.”_

_“No. But powers of the mind do.”_

_Siath swallowed. How could the creature know?_

_A chilling laugh rattled Siath’s nerves. “I can see every thought in your mind, Siath. I can pick them out one-by-one and examine them. None can deceive me. None can fool me. Isn’t that what you want?”_

_“My Steward is a talented enough Empath for my purposes.”_

_“You would never need to rely on his assistance again. I could give that to you. You could peer inside the minds of others. You could rearrange their thoughts.”_

_“You are referring to mind-magic,” Siath said, catching on. “You are offering me powers of Empathy and mind-speak.”_

_“And more besides. Think of what you could do with such power.”_

_Siath hated himself for it, but he did. He imagined the ease with which he could navigate the council meetings. He would be able to communicate with others over long distance, doing away with his reliance on dispatches. He could speak to Valory no matter where in the world his brother was. He shook his head, clearing it of temptation. It was not worth the price. “That sort of power is not for me to have.”_

_“Why, because that is what selfish Illen has decreed? Illen who serves no ends but her own? Turn your back on the Brother and Sister. Bow before me instead, and the power you seek will be yours forever. Illen has given you a scant few years – I can give you more,” the creature coaxed._

_Siath swallowed hard. There was only one sort of creature who could deliver such a promise, who could give the gift of eternal life and dominion over the worlds beyond death. His heart began to race. The promise had its allure, but he could never stoop to making a deal with a demon._

_“Your offer is generous, but you have made a miscalculation.”_

_“I do not make miscalculations.”_

_“Yet I do not covet any of the things you have offered,” Siath said. “Not truly, although entertaining a brief fantasy of them is nice. I’m afraid I must decline your offer.”_

_“Your sort has always been like that – so short-sighted and weak. Very well. If you think yourself too good for my offer, remember Shan’kor’s promise: if you do not swear yourself to me and deliver Oceana into my hands, I will give him your brother.”_

_Siath’s features hardened. “Of course – the false promises failed, so now you resort to threats. You will not harm my brother.”_

_“Not unless you choose to defy me. If you do, I have promised Valory’s body and your mind to the Witch King to use as he sees fit. He will tear you both to pieces,” the creature snarled._

_Siath, balling his fists to disguise the tremor in his hands, stood his ground. “I reject your offer. That filthy fish-king can do what he will with my mind, but he will be surprised if he thinks it will be easy to best my brother.”_

_The creature let out a blood-curdling noise at his dismissal. “You will regret the decision to stand between me and what I am owed.”_

_The cold, sinking terror that threatened to consume him manifested itself in a rare display of ire. “What you are *owed*? You are no one. You are nothing,” he shouted. “I do not even know your name.”_

_A chilling laugh met Siath’s bold words. As silver began swimming across his vision once more, the creature whispered, “That is a lie. You know who I am, child of Eramen. You know my name.”_

_Cold dread settled in Siath’s mind._

_He did._

…

Arden pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. The wind was howling that night, kicking up the swell and making it difficult to stay in formation alongside the rest of the Armathian fleet. The journey around the shoals of Fángon’s Reach had been tense, particularly because they couldn’t afford to slow their pace. The witches were watching them, but so long as they made good time, the creatures would have no opportunity to climb aboard.

With the Season of Peace upon them the weather had finally begun to cool at night, encouraging the sailors to pull on vests and coats over their linen shirts. Imran grumbled ceaselessly about the change in weather, encouraging the good natured teasing that _Windjammer’_ s crew visited upon him at every opportunity.

Imran and Gabe had been transferred to one of the lapstrake vessels before sunset in a hair-raising maneuver that had come very close to wrecking _Windjammer_ ’s launch. The question of who would lead the infantry up the beach had sparked a heated debate in a meeting in Redrock, one which was settled when Imran himself volunteered to go. The infantrymen had been thrilled to know that the Prince’s own Lieutenant would lead their charge. Not one to let a comrade go alone, Gabriel had asked to be sent with him.

Though Imran was useless when it came to keeping watch, two soldiers were nevertheless assigned to take his place on Arden’s team that evening. The need to keep moving and avoid a preemptive attack by the witches had the unfortunate side-effect of forcing them to maintain a watch rotation throughout the night, robbing the crew of a full night’s sleep on the eve of battle. Arden and Valory had it the worst with the pre-dawn watch, but hadn’t permitted the others to stand it in their stead; they were all well-accustomed to fighting on little rest. It would be a lie, however, to say they didn’t look forward to getting below for the scant hour or two they would get before reaching Elona.

It was a relief when Jonah finally appeared to take the helm. Arden made quick work of briefing him and his team, all of whom cursed the biting wind and spray as they mounted the quarterdeck steps. On his way below he noted that Valory was having a word with one of the young soldiers from Jonah’s watch. He hesitated a few feet away from them, but Valory waved him off; a private matter, then. Arden surmised that Valory was soothing a case of nerves and continued down the main companionway in the direction of cabin.

The stifling below deck heat had given way to pleasant warmth thanks to the change in weather. Arden stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, draping them over his chair. He cleared a space on his desk to unroll a chart of Elona’s harbor, pinning its corners down with whatever was on hand. An open pot of salve, an empty mug, and a small head of coral rock dealt with three corners. He was searching for an object heavy enough to stay the fourth when Mizzen jumped up on the desk and curled up on the far end of the chart.

“That’ll do, girl,” Arden said, giving the purring cat a scratch behind the ears.

As he bent over the chart, finger tracing a path along Ithaka’s coastline, he heard Valory’s booted feet thump down the companionway behind him. Mizzen let out a high-pitched squeak in greeting when he entered the cabin, sharp eyes watching him dog the door shut.

“Dead reckoning?” Valory asked, shucking his outer layers.

“No, just having a last minute look at the harbor,” Arden murmured. “Can’t be too prepared.”

“We’re as ready as we can be,” Valory reminded him.

“I know,” Arden sighed, but didn’t take his eyes from the map. “The timing will be delicate. We have to keep moving until the last moment, and mustn’t tip our hand too soon.”

“All true, but I know you have that chart memorized. I’m not sure what good will come from staring at it so.”

Arden hummed, his amused gaze flicking up to meet Valory’s. “You’re not wrong, but you know how I worry about missing details.”

“You do not seem so worried this time.”

“As compared with Illen’s Arm?” Arden looked down to regard the chart once more. Mizzen, who had her chin tucked up along Redrock Bay, began inching eastward until Arden took the hint and scratched her behind the ears again.

“Yes. Perhaps you’re growing accustomed to planning operations on this scale.”

“I’m more inclined to blame the exhaustion, but I suppose that’s a contributing factor,” he shrugged, fingers drawing a contented purr from the languorous tabby. “I’ll also admit that I feel much more confident with the infantry now that Imran and Gabe will be in the lead.”

“I’m glad Imran asked to be sent ashore. He’s far more comfortable fighting with solid ground beneath his feet.” Valory shucked off his shirt and boots as well, dropping his vambraces atop the pile they formed on the floor.

“And nigh on unbeatable, as I had the opportunity to learn first-hand,” Arden said with a wry twist of his lips.

“I had heard that you were spending some time with him in the practice ring.”

“Yes, well, I can see why you made him your second-in-command.”

Valory dropped into the hammock, swinging back and forth with each wave. “I seem to have a habit of making good decisions in that area.”

Arden’s hand strayed to his pendant. “You can say that again when all of this is done and we are celebrating a great victory.”

“Is that the hunch you have?”

“On nights like this I have difficulty separating hope and fear from Sight.” He sighed, dragging a finger into the bay. “If they squeeze us into the end of the harbor and our lapstrake vessels beach beam-to . . .”

“We’ll figure something out. Come here.”

Arden looked over his shoulder, taking in Valory’s prone form. “Just let me—”

“No. Come swing in the hammock with me for a while. I’ll be surprised if either of us gets to sleep, but I won’t have you spinning theories until the call goes out.”

Defeated, Arden gave Mizzen one final pat before unbuckling his belt and laying it – weaponry and all – across his desk. “Do you think we’ll both fit?” he asked, laughing as he struggled over the side of the hammock and into the space between Valory’s legs, teetering precariously each time _Windjammer_ rolled.

“I’m more worried about the knots giving out,” Valory shifted.

They were all elbows and knees for a few moments, squirming and shuffling in search of a better position. “Are you making some sort of sly remark about my knot work?”

Valory grinned, tugging at Arden’s calves. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” They had finally attained some semblance of comfort, facing one another with their legs tangled around each other’s waists.

“I think I’m beginning to understand why we’ve been squeezing into the bunk instead. I might be stuck.” He tried to push backwards, but his legs were trapped beneath Valory’s.

Valory, amused by Arden’s struggles, refrained from commenting. He dug his heels into the canvas on either side of Arden’s hips, lying back and folding his arms behind his head.

“Do you think,” Arden continued, mind whirling down a different trajectory altogether, “that the Elementalists Francis has aboard the two lapstrake vessels will have enough power between them to manipulate the current as well as the surge? It would be helpful should the Januzians manage to break our ranks and force them into the far end of the bay.”

“Perhaps. Could you aid them if it came to that?”

“From a distance?” Arden wiggled again, losing more purchase as he did.

Valory grabbed hold of the hammock to steady himself lest he wind up in Arden’s lap. “I suppose it would be a mistake to rely on any sort of amplification, given the ambiguity of its source.”

“That, yes, but I’m going to be occupied with things here on _Windjammer_. Perhaps I might get a note to Francis’ Elementalists—”

“Arden. The men know their mission and know their craft. Leave them to it.”

Arden sighed, frustrated with himself. He couldn’t seem to get his spinning thoughts to rest, couldn’t help the sense of expectation that filled him each time he thought over their plans to retake Ithaka. He hated it. _I shouldn’t be looking forward to battle._ What if he had to commit any of his men – his friends – to the sea that day? It wouldn’t be the first time _Windjammer_ would have lost a man in battle, and here he was _looking forward_ to storming Elona. The thoughts whirring in his mind created an unwieldy paradox. He tugged at his hair, letting out a noise of frustration.

“Arden?”

“I am too keyed up to stop thinking about the morrow. My mind hums with anticipation. What does that say about me?”

Raising his brows at yet another unprompted non sequitur, Valory asked, “Say about what?”

“To be anticipating _battle_ —”

“Ah. To tell you the truth, I am genuinely looking forward to littering the decks with the viscera of sea-witches. What does _that_ say about _me_?”

Arden cocked his head, shifting once again. “That you are a far sight more honest with yourself than I.”

Valory let out a soft groan. Arden’s shifting hips were beginning to make it difficult to concentrate on his words. “You’re right about me,” he said. “I want the Witch King and his kind to pay for what they’ve done, and I’m willing to extract that price with my own hands. Wrong of me? Certainly. But that’s not what you want. Their suffering will not bring you joy. You want to watch them walk into the trap you’ve laid. You want to see the look on the Witch King’s face when he realizes he’s been beat.” He gave up on trying to keep to his half of the hammock, sliding up into the vee of Arden’s thighs. “You want to _outsmart_ them. You want to _win_. That is very different from blood lust.”

Arden’s hands automatically fell on Valory’s hips. “You make it sound like an admirable thing.”

“You’d rather be horrified by the idea? Uninterested in victory when the means involve violence? You are a Steward, Arden, not a priest. You would be useless if you thought like a pacifist.”

Arden considered Valory’s words, true for all their lack of warmth. “I know that. I suppose that I had never anticipated orchestrating conflicts on this scale; it’s different than taking up arms in the defense of one’s crew. Now that I am . . . well.” Arden shrugged. “I can’t help but notice the ethical and logical inconsistencies in my words and deeds. I don’t think it’s a waste of time to try and resolve them.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You’re the sort to resist simplification in favor of contemplating every single shade of grey.” Valory’s hips had begun to rock ever so slightly as he spoke. Arden didn’t know whether it was an attempt at distraction, or something he couldn’t help. “It’s a worthwhile pursuit, only – perhaps not hours before we make landfall at Elona.”

“Yeh.” Arden tipped his head back to rest on the taut canvas of the hammock. “My mind runs at fifteen knots at times, I’m afraid.”

“I can think of a few ways to keep the thoughts at bay until the call goes out,” Valory said, flicking open the top two buttons of Arden’s shirt, running his fingers over the pale skin beneath.

 _Distraction, then._ “Are you propositioning me in the midst of a conversation about the nature of morality?” Arden arched a brow.

“Is it working?” Valory fisted a hand in Arden’s shirt, pulling him closer.

Arden fought against the position the hammock forced him into, folding his legs in until he could kneel up between Valory’s thighs. An impish smile tugged at his lips. “It is.” He traced the line of dark hair that ran down Valory’s stomach, stopping to tease at his laces where it disappeared into his trousers. He felt the stutter in Valory’s breath, muscles jumping under his fingers.

“Come here,” Valory said, all manner of patience gone.

He pulled Arden down on top of him, wrapping his legs around the backs of Arden’s thighs. The hammock made for awkward leverage, but at least Arden finally seemed content to abandon his thoughts of the morrow.

.

Some long minutes later Arden lay, sated, listening to Valory’s breathing first slow, then even out. If he wasn’t asleep, he soon would be. Arden’s internal clock and the sway of the ship gave him a good idea of where they were along the Ithakan coastline; he knew they had an hour at most before they would have to rise and dress for the upcoming conflict. Until then, however, he had every intention of dozing in the hammock with Val at his side.

…

The next sound either of them registered was the insistent banging on the cabin door, accompanied by Jonah’s taunts.

“Oi, I don’t know what you two are doing in there, but Cap wants us on deck in ten.”

“I was asleep, Jonah, thanks very much,” Arden muttered into Valory’s shoulder.

“Spare me the details, if you please,” Jonah teased.

“We’ll be on deck presently,” Valory rumbled, voice still rough with sleep.

As Jonah’s footsteps faded, both men groaned and stretched, causing the hammock to wobble dangerously. “What made us think it was a good idea to stay in the hammock for a kip?” Arden wondered, rubbing at the back of his neck as he struggled to his feet.

Valory grunted, adjusting his smallclothes and tightening his laces before rolling out of the hammock as well. They dressed mostly in silence, Arden digging through his sea-chest for the leathers he had commissioned after pledging his fealty. New armor had felt like an indulgence at first, but both Verne and Valory had insisted. After it became clear that they would face the Sea-Witch King once more, however, he had grown to appreciate the sturdy craftsmanship of the studded leather. He brushed his fingers reverently over the lines stamped into the front of his breastplate. It was a fine thing to have one’s own insignia.

Valory’s armor was longer, hanging halfway to his knees. Though Arden had to admit he felt more confident with a leather cowl covering his neck and shoulders, he was glad he had dismissed Verne’s suggestion to cover his legs as well. He knew he would find the plates awkward and ungainly, especially shipboard where the risks of entanglement were so high.

He looked up from the buckles over his hips to catch Valory watching him. “Am I forgetting something?” Valory shook his head. “Then what?”

“Admiring you in full regalia, Lord Steward Arden.”

Unlike Valory, Arden was certain he’d never tire of hearing his full title. “Not quite as glorious as my brother’s suit of metal, but it’ll suffice.”

“I prefer leathers myself,” Valory said, scooping Arden’s vambraces off the desk and crossing the cabin in a stride. He rubbed the silver-stamped crescent moon on the right side of Arden’s chest. A slow smile broke across Arden’s face.

“One for luck?”

It was an old Armathian superstition that touching one’s commander’s crest brought good luck before battle. He hadn’t seen anyone do so since his time with the cavalry; he hadn’t even thought it was still done at all. Valory’s gesture made it clear that he saw them as equals – even in rank. Arden reached up to rub at Valory’s in turn.

“We could use a little luck, I think,” Valory replied. “Arden—” he sighed. “You know better than any the dangers we face.”

“I do.” They had spent many an hour discussing strategy for precisely that reason. Arden knew, however, that the heart of the matter hadn’t been mentioned aloud since that final council meeting.

“If the worst should happen—”

“Val.”

Valory shook his head. His stare was focused, resolved. “If the worst should happen, make sure I do not end up in the hands of the Sea-Witch King.”

“I cannot – Val, you cannot—” Arden drew in another breath. “Please don’t ask me to—”

“Arden. Promise me.”

Arden swallowed hard. “I . . . very well. I promise. I would want you to do the same.”

“Of course.” Valory broke the stare, eyes shifting down and away. “I want you to know that, no matter what happens today . . . I am very glad I found you in Anaphe.”

“As am I.” It was plain what they were both trying to say.

Valory ducked his head, taking Arden’s arm and fastening the buckles of his worn vambraces after placing a kiss to each wrist, an echo of the ritual before the battle at Illen’s Arm. Hands shaking, Arden located Valory’s own beneath the hammock and repeated the action, cinching them tight with a kiss and a murmured “be safe.”

“Ready?” Valory asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”


	22. Chapter 22

_The Season of Peace  
Erád the 7; 2421_

The wind blew hard off the port beam, pushing them onward towards the harbor at nearly ten knots. With _Windjammer_ tacked around the last of the shoals, the crew had a few minutes’ respite to muster on the quarterdeck and hear the Prince’s address. Callum stood at the helm, keeping course with the rest of the Armathian fleet. Ehrin, newly returned from the jib sheet, settled atop the steering gear behind him.

Valory leaned against the windward rail, resplendent in his livery, with Arden standing tall at his side. The Lords of Armathia were ready for battle. Their men stared with rapt attention.

When Valory spoke his voice carried, capturing their hearts and calling them to action.

“This morning, in this harbor, unfolds the battle of a generation. If we fall, the enemy will use Elona as a base to attack our homeland, yes; but do not forget that this island is also the homeland of our fellow countrymen. Do not forget that the blood of our brethren has been spilled upon these shores. Do not forget that the vile creatures we face today have already struck at our hearts by holding my brother in captivity.” His voice dropped, eyes flashing with fury. “We will not stand for it. Be relentless in battle. Wipe these foul creatures from existence. Show them no pity.”

The soldiers had begun to voice their agreement, cries of ‘yea!’ and ‘here, here!’ ringing out across the deck.

“Never give up,” Valory thundered. “Never surrender. Never give credence to your fears. We are Armathian. We are not afraid. Raise your arms, men – for today, we fight for Oceana!”

Ehrin felt her heart surge in her chest at the Prince’s impassioned words. The soldiers cried out with one voice, beating at their breastplates. They approached their own commander first, clapping him on the shoulder and rubbing at the insignia of the King’s infantry over the center of his chest. From there they made their way to windward, hesitating for a brief moment before the Prince. Ehrin recognized the Armathian tradition for what it was, but was still surprised when both Valory and Arden spread their arms, inviting the well-wishes and touches of good luck bestowed by their countrymen.

A great cacophony came from the flagship at the head of the fleet, drawing their attention. Admiral Francis must have delivered a rousing speech himself, for his men had started bellowing out the words to an old mariner’s call to war. Before them a handful of Januzian vessels crossed the harbor, moving to intercept the headlong charge of the Armathian fleet. It had begun.

The soldiers and sailors scattered from Windjammer’s quarterdeck, hustling into position. Callum’s voice rose above the din, barking out orders to the crew as chaos unfolded before them. To port the navy schooner – outfitted with a raked, reinforced prow – executed a sharp tack, making straight for the beam of an enemy vessel. The Januzian clipper barely had time to start falling off before the schooner was upon them, ramming at full speed and splintering their hull all the way down to the waterline.

 _Windjammer_ made a wide tack around the busiest of the action, following the two lapstrake vessels in the direction of the beach. From her post on the mainsail sheet, Ehrin could see Imran’s distinct form at the stern of the first vessel. A glance back across the anchorage confirmed that the Januzian vessels had turned and taken up the chase in an attempt to drive them into the beach. The action in the bay, however, had them lagging behind.

Ehrin waited ready on the main sheet. As her father turned the helm into the wind she began to sweat the line, easily sheeting in the luffing sail. One of the soldiers stepped up to tail for her.

“Have you got it, Miss Ehrin?” he asked, pulling the slack through the cleat.

“Keep tailing, soldier,” she said with a grunt, throwing her bodyweight backwards to gather more slack. The soldier had no way of knowing that sweating a line had more to do with technique than brute strength.

 _Windjammer_ glided to its destination, stopped in the middle of the bay in order to obstruct Januzian traffic as best as they could whilst attracting the attention of their real quarry: the Sea-Witch King.

With _Windjammer_ in irons and all of their sails pulled into the centerline, their pace finally began to slow. The soldiers prepared themselves for conflict, taking up their posts all along the sides of the deck. Ehrin reclaimed the bitter end of the sheet away from the infantryman behind her, locking it off one-handed. The man watched her work, keeping his post just next to the gallows. It was then that he saw the movement before them.

“Miss Ehrin!” the soldier warned, taking a step back and scrambling for his broadsword.

The sea-witch was over the transom before the soldier had his weapon halfway out of its scabbard. He took another stumbling step backwards, avoiding the first flick of the creature’s claws. The creature made to advance again, but Ehrin was faster, cutlass ringing as she drew it from beneath her skirts. In one smooth motion she whirled around, driving the blade straight through the creature’s back. Even as the creature jerked in agony, she did not relinquish hold of her weapon. As its struggles stilled, she shoved the body to the rail before delivering a solid kick to the small of its back, forcing it off of her cutlass and over the side.

She spun back around to face the deck, sword raised, braid whipping about behind her. The soldiers, all of whom had heard their comrade’s shout and turned to see Ehrin dispose of the creature, gaped at her in shock. Ehrin stared back at them defiantly, drawing her rig knife and resuming a ready stance at the rail.

“For Ithaka,” she said.

The soldiers repeated her words, voices building into a chant as more creatures began to climb over the gunwales. At the helm Callum drew his own cutlass, grinning fiercely at his daughter.

“That’s me girl,” he said. “Now let’s send them all down to the locker where they belong!”

…

Miles away from where Ehrin laid claim to _Windjammer_ ’s first kill, Verne was shutting and locking the door to the Prince’s chambers. He regarded Siath’s pale, still form for a few moments before taking the empty seat next to his father.

Miran spared a brief glance out the window. After checking upon the angle of the sun, he looked back to the Prince’s bedside where the Queen sat, cradling her son’s limp hands between her own. “It’s time,” he said.

“How will we know?” Persephone asked, not daring to look away from Siath’s face.

“It’s uncertain, my lady,” Verne said. “My brother could not say whether or not success would cause him to wake or whether his body, exhausted, would fall immediately into deep sleep.”

“Then?” the Queen prompted.

“If his heart still beats by nightfall, he lives.”

“He may yet live but be trapped in the Witch King’s clutches if Valory . . .” Persephone trailed off, unwilling to give voice to the possibility that her youngest might not be victorious.

“We must wait, my Lady,” Verne intoned, a gentle note in his stern voice. “My father and I will stay here with you until he wakes.”

“Or—” Miran began, but his son cut him off.

“We will all be here when he wakes.”

Verne was not prone to flights of fancy, but when Valory described him as a man of unswerving loyalty and unshakeable faith, it hadn’t been an exaggeration. Verne bowed his head, praying to Illen, Fángon, and Ranael each in turn.

His Lord would wake.

He had to.

…

Gabriel stood ready at the stern of their vessel, Imran several paces to his right. Around them a handful of Francis’ Elementalists worked to adjust the push and pull of the surge, keeping them perpendicular to the beach as they prepared to run the hull aground. From the angle at which he stood, he could just make out the expression of discomfort lining Imran’s features. Gabe wondered if the Dramorian would ever get used to the nature of enchantments.

They had already let a number of men off at the bow; the crew had run a kedge far up the beach in order to take some of the strain off of the waterworkers. The refrain of a shanty could be heard from the foredeck where the capstan turned, helping to draw them further ashore. There had been a tense few minutes when the anchor was set; the sea-witches were not content to let the Armathians ashore so easily, and took two of the sailors down before they even set foot on dry land. The combined work of archers and Elementalists prevented the creatures from getting the upper hand, however, beating them back as they appeared. The real danger would come from the fort.

At the helm, the Captain had a careful eye on the Elementalists. At their long awaited signal he began to bellow orders, shouting as he rushed forward with the rest of the crew. The ship rode out one last wave onto the beach before the waterworkers released their hold on the swell, allowing the water to recede naturally. The force of the under tow ripped the water away from shore, stunning the witches that had attempted to pursue them into shallow water.

Imran, not one to lose the opportunity to get ashore while the sea-witches were distracted, leapt gracefully off the port quarter into knee deep water. Gabriel landed behind him, sword already drawn. He ran up the beach behind Imran, envious of how light the man was on his feet even over shifting sand.

Before them, men from the two lapstrake vessels had begun to fall into rank, brandishing their weaponry and readying themselves for conflict. Only a few lagged behind, fighting off the handful of sea-witches that had managed to make for the beach in spite of the defense thrown up by the Elementalists. Gabriel fought to keep his focus; he could feel the anticipation, fear, and confusion rolling off of the Armathians, threatening to overwhelm his senses.

 _Confusion?_ Gabriel furrowed his brow. Their operation had been planned down to the tiniest detail; what could cause such confusion? As the gaggle of soldiers on the beach finally began to resemble a marching company, Gabe noticed that they had all started looking to their commanders for orders. The commanders, in turn, looked towards Imran. _Ah._

“Imran,” Gabe hissed, throwing an elbow to the man’s ribs, “say something.”

 _Panic_. It came off Imran hard enough that Gabe’s eyes watered. “They expect me to make some noble speech?” Imran asked.

“They’re terrified. Anxious. We just tangled with sea-witches and beached two vessels, and they’re unsure what will come through those gates to meet us. They are all looking to you to direct them.”

“They will not want to hear such things from a Dramorian.” Imran’s frown deepened.

“After ten years serving alongside you, I hardly think of you as Dramorian anymore.”

Imran opened and shut his mouth once before stiffening and turning, resolute, to the hodgepodge of navy and infantrymen assembled before him. In times of stress his accent became heavier, and this moment was no exception. “All of us,” he said, consonants jarring against Oceanic vowels, “are men of Oceana: by birth or by choice.” The soldiers had fallen silent, hanging upon the words of Valory’s enigmatic Lieutenant. “We are men of justice, and we will show our opponents mercy.” At the disheartened grumbles of those before him, a feral grin captured Imran’s features. “We will show them mercy, yes – but let us make them beg for it.”

Gabriel’s voice joined the rest of those assembled, heartily shouting out his approval. He could feel the mood of the men changing as they geared up for the charge. For once in his life, it seemed as though Imran had found a way with words.

Imran drew first one blade, then another from the holster strapped to his back. As the gates of the fort opened and they caught the first glimpse of their Januzian foes, he thrust his blades into the air. “For Ithaka!” he shouted, cry echoed by the men behind him. “For Oceana!”

Without a look over his shoulder to see whether the men were with him, he began a sprint up the beach.  He hadn’t gone three steps before Gabriel was at his side, keeping pace with broadsword at the ready. It wasn’t the first time they had run into battle together side-by-side.

Gabriel dearly hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

…

“Drop the headsails, lads! Jonah, let’s get the stay furled; we need that boom topped up right quick!” Callum’s orders cut through the wind to carry all the way forward.

While the crew rushed to obey Callum’s commands, Valory and the soldiers fought the scores of witches working their way up the gunwales of the vessel. The witches crowded _Windjammer_ on all sides, their numbers so great that the sea looked as if it were boiling.

Up topside the conflict became bloody almost immediately. Valory fought before the mast where the cap rail was the lowest, long strokes of his broadsword preventing witch after witch from coming aboard. He could hear Arden’s grunts of exertion above and behind his head. A brief glance out of the corner of an eye confirmed that his Steward had chosen to take up a post atop the midships housetop – awkward and dangerous territory for any who was not accustomed to fighting aboard a working schooner. Valory watched as Arden pressed two witches back towards the foresail traveler; one slipped over the block behind its tail and fell to the deck where a soldier set upon it. The other met a grisly death on the end of Arden’s cutlass. Arden looked away from the corpse, expressionless, before going after another witch that stood within his reach. He did not get the same sense of satisfaction as Valory for each witch he felled.

As Valory fought, he kept thoughts of his brother close to the forefront of his mind. Picturing Siath’s prone form drew a red haze across his vision. He knew that driving his blade into witch after witch would neither bring Conrad back nor wake Siath from his stupor, but that knowledge did not slake his temper any. He would send the Witch King and its minions to the locker with his own two hands if he could.

Another blow sent a scrambling witch tumbling back into the water from which it came. _Let them all rot_ , he thought viciously. Magnanimity was reserved for his fellow man. These creatures had betrayed Oceana an age ago; they were owed no mercy, no honor, no decency. Valory snarled at the next witch to raise its head over the bulwark. The more he killed today, the less there were to plague the night watches of sailors throughout the isles.

A lull in the onslaught gave Valory the opportunity to have a look around the deck. With so many soldiers about, it was difficult to say whether they had suffered any casualties. _Windjammer_ ’s crew was easier to pick out in the chaos; Ehrin fought beside her father at the helm. Niko and Little had places at the quarterdeck steps, defending the vessel’s high ground. Jonah remained on the foredeck, carrying out Callum’s orders to top up the staysail boom – an integral part of Arden’s plan for the entrapment of the Sea-Witch King. Lars kept Jonah’s back safe from the advances of the creatures, fighting with the ferocity that only a man his size could manage. His spear was slung over a shoulder, ready and waiting.

Valory beat back another two witches before turning his eyes to the beach. Imran and Gabriel’s men were driving a wedge through the Januzians sent to defend the entrance to the fort, leaving bodies littered in their wake. Their objective to draw the enemy out of the fort and onto lower ground – leaving them vulnerable to attack from the cavalry – had been remarkably successful. Gods willing, the cavalry would arrive in time.

Even from the distance he was at, Valory could see the occasional rip current churning its way seaward, preventing a counterattack by the witches. Arden had briefed Francis’ Elementalists well. The Westernese were isolated from their water-bound allies, and the net tightened around them.

As Valory looked out over the water, the lull in the assault of sea-witches made sudden, complete sense. Before his very eyes the water surrounding _Windjammer_ turned to foam. A pulsating mass of blue-black tentacles broke the surface, followed by the rest of the Sea-Witch King’s monstrous body. The creature lurched forward, tentacles slapping wetly against _Windjammer_ ’s hull. Valory took a reflexive step back. He glanced over his shoulder to where his Steward was making quick work of yet another one of the creatures.

“Arden,” he said, voice urgent, “have Lars make ready. Take up your post. It’s time.”

Lars, hearing Valory’s order, swung up into the foresail’s standing rig, pulling himself high enough that he was out of reach of the creatures below. Jonah, finished with the work of securing the stay, scrambled back aft once more.

Unaware of the preparations undergone by _Windjammer_ ’s crew, the Sea-Witch King continued his climb. Valory winced. He heard Arden gasp behind him, and knew that they felt the same burn. He had been ready for the pain, but found it no less unnerving for all of his preparation. The mark of the Witch King stung as it had the day it was delivered, an echo of the severity of the original wound.

The creature hissed as it slithered over the cap rail, drawing itself up to full height and leering at Valory.

“What, my brother’s mind wasn’t enough? You’re after me as well?” Valory spat, avoiding the reach of a questing tentacle.

The creature hissed again, advancing towards him, colorless lips twisted up in a mockery of a smile. It spread its arms, baring the razor-sharp claws that grew from its knobby, webbed fingers. The sinewy stump that marked the outcome of their last confrontation twitched.

“What did you expect, then, that I would lay my sword down and yield to you?” Valory arched a brow. “Never,” he snarled. “If you want my surrender, you’ll have to come and get it.”

…

The uphill fight was arduous, to say the least.

The sand shifted beneath their feet, making it difficult to find purchase against their foes. The Januzians came at them hard and fast, yelling in their odd dialect. Imran could only understand about every third word he heard; an unnerving change after being able to communicate flawlessly with the Belenese.

What the Januzians lacked in numbers they made up in desperation. Their first downhill run nearly scattered the Armathian charge, highly-trained soldiers though they were. Imran, beside himself with fury, had hurled a stream of invectives at their performance that would have made _Windjammer_ ’s crew blush. The soldiers regrouped in short order and began their steady progress up towards the fort’s gates. They stalled some hundred feet away, however, receiving heavy fire from archers hidden up high on the fort’s parapets. Though they had driven a wedge up the beach and inflicted heavy casualties in the process, Imran feared that they would not be able to make it to the top of the hill.

He had lost count of fallen opponents almost immediately, twin blades flashing with ceaseless, brutal efficiency. His appearance stunned the Januzians – it must have been unthinkable to them to face one of the sultan’s own in such a context – giving Imran more than enough opportunity to dispatch with any and all who crossed his path. As he moved through complex offensive stances he could feel the small wooden idol of Arrar shifting against his sternum. _Mighty Arrar, let us triumph this day. Your name be praised._ Although Imran wasn’t the sort of man to believe in luck, he had tucked it into his pocket before battle hoping that perhaps Arrar would smile down upon his friends that day, self-professed children of Illen though they were.

Imran twisted out of the way of another Januzian attack, the movement helping him avoid an arrow that whistled past, doubtlessly meant for his back. He sprang forward with an aggressive offensive attack, parrying blow for blow before finally disarming and felling the short-haired man before him. Yet another Januzian sprung up in the man’s place. It was all Imran could do not to stagger with exhaustion.

Just as he was raising his blades to engage this new opponent, he heard a great commotion begin at the back of the enemy lines. Though his grasp of their dialect was imperfect, he was positive that a call of _‘Fall back, fall back!’_ had gone out. Sure enough, the Januzians began to retreat. Tempted as he was to allow his men to rush forward, Imran couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t some sort of ploy. Looking up, he was distressed to find that Gabriel was no longer at his side.

There was no time to think about that, however. Imran spun around and began shouting orders, commanding the men behind him to form ranks once again. A cursory glanced showed that they had lost men, though not quite as many as they might have.

“What orders, sir?” one of the infantry commanders asked.

“Do not let them retreat,” Imran said. “They will give us the fort, or we will crush them against the gates!”

With the infantry at the ready, Imran started up the hill in pursuit of their fleeing foes. They could not afford to allow the Januzians to reach the safety of the fort: doing so would give them a stronghold in which they could hole up for days, perhaps weeks. Elona’s townspeople would suffer terribly in the event of a siege. They had to act quickly.

Without the wall of opposition put up by the Januzians, Imran and his men were able to make steady progress up the hill towards the gates. The barrage of arrows had also slaked, making their passage across open ground less treacherous. Still, the Januzians – fleeing without regard to rank or formation – were faster. Nearly half of the opposing forces had escaped through the gates by the time Imran reached the road at the top of the hill.

The sight that met him was entirely unexpected. Scores of townspeople had mobbed the road, pursuing the enemy with makeshift weaponry bared. They cheered as they saw the Armathian company rise over the hill, waving all manner of armament – scythes, pitchforks, pokers – in the air in greeting. The people of Elona had seen them arrive that morning and taken to the streets to earn their own freedom.

The Westernese had clearly not anticipated such a turn of events. Even though half of their men had not yet made it back inside the fort, the gates were dropped in a desperate bid to escape the now-overwhelming numbers of Oceanic combatants.

Imran whirled around, turning to face the infantry. “Give no quarter until they get to their knees,” he demanded.

Scant moments later they slammed into the remaining defenders, pinning them against the outer wall of the fort. Scattered and confused, the Januzians did not offer much of a challenge. Imran wasn’t surprised when only a handful surrendered. It seemed that Januzians – like their Belenese rivals – preferred death in battle to the dishonor of capture and ransom.

Throughout the hectic yet brief skirmish outside the gates, Imran noted that the force of the Westernese archers continued to diminish. By the time the defenders of the gate were subdued, aerial attack had ceased altogether. Imran hoped that their attention was diverted elsewhere, though he was not so naïve as to fail to consider the likelihood of a trap.

“Men, ranks,” he ordered, scanning the chaotic jumble of infantry and townspeople for Gabriel’s face. “Take down this gate. Be ready for whatever lies on the other side.”

As Imran stepped aside to make way for the battering ram, he finally spotted Gabriel. At first glance Imran thought his friend had been grievously wounded; blood ran from his forehead down the side of his face. He did not register the spring in Gabriel’s step as he jogged over to stand at his side. Gabe must have felt the surge of _– panic, worry, rage –_ that burst through Imran’s mind, however, for he smiled and declared,

“It’s just a bump. You know how head wounds bleed.”

“Where in Fángon’s name were you?” Imran snapped.

Gabriel’s smile grew. Imran’s brusque manner concealed little. “A Januzian officer got a bit desperate; he grabbed a handful of coral rock as a weapon after I disarmed him.”

“He hit you.”

“Maybe so; but you should see what _he_ looks like.”

Imran returned Gabriel’s smile as the battering ram thumped against the gates. It took several hits – along with the coordinating efforts of one telekinetic and two firestarters – before the gate weakened enough that it gave.

None was more surprised than Imran to find the hall on the other side of the gate completely deserted.

“Proceed with caution,” he warned, facing the wary countenances of the men behind him. “Make for the heart of the fort.”

With Imran and Gabriel in the lead, the infantrymen fell into step through the winding corridors of Elona’s fort. As they proceeded towards the yard that housed the training grounds just inside the western facing gate, the eerie quiet was replaced by the frenzied noises of battle. The Armathians remained quiet in deference to Imran’s command, but it was plain to see the way their spirits had lifted. Sounds of combat could only mean one thing: the cavalry had arrived.

When they reached a long, arched corridor that served as one of the fort’s main arteries, they ran into the first fleeing Januzians. The men pulled up short at the sight of the oncoming infantry before turning and scrambling back in the direction from which they came. Imran could tell the men were itching to give chase, but he held their pace to a controlled march.

As the arched hallway opened into the yard, Imran’s greatest hopes were confirmed. Although the Januzians fought on with vicious tenacity, the Armathian cavalry dominated the area. In the midst of the fray rode Captain Willis, barking out orders and epithets alike as he hacked his way through the last formation of Januzian soldiers.

The remaining Januzians clustered together in a defensive configuration, huddled in the center of the yard. In the center stood a stocky man with short-cropped dark hair and a striking, deep purple coat. Though the cut and color were different, the similarities to Félix’s uniform were unmistakable. Imran was looking upon the Januzian Commodore.

Feeling eyes on his back the Commodore spun, deflecting the attack of a cavalryman in the process. Catching sight of the infantrymen pouring into the yard, he balked. Imran saw the exact moment the man realized that all was lost. Instead of dropping to his knees, however, he widened his stance and turned his eyes to the sky. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he proclaimed,

_“May the great Lord of Januz forgive our failure.”_

His second – identifiable by the white stripes on his cuffs – barely had time to react to the Commodore’s words before the man had turned his blade upon himself.

The impact of the Commodore’s death rippled across the yard. Several other officers lowered their weapons, hesitating, knowing it was their duty to follow their Commodore into death, but unwilling to carry out his final order. When the first of the Januzians lifted his weapon to his breast, the Commodore’s second cried out,

 _“No! Stay your hand!”_ His words were followed by another phrase that Imran couldn’t translate precisely. It must have had its intended effect, however, because the man lowered his blade.

Seeing his comrade safe, the new acting-Commodore heaved out a sigh of relief. He raised his eyes to where Imran and the infantrymen stood before slowly sinking to his knees. The rest of the Januzians followed suit. All at once, the fighting stopped.

Behind Imran the townspeople began to cheer. The racket drew the attention of Captain Willis, who rode over as soon as he recognized Imran and Gabriel.

“You’re Prince Valory’s second. Lieutenant Imran, was it?” he asked, pulling up short before them.

“I am.”

“I’d say this surrender is yours to accept in his stead, then, if that’s what your Lord’s orders were. It’s only right that you’re the one to take the Januzian’s sword,” Willis continued.

Imran nodded, hoping that his features did not betray the swell of surprised pleasure that surged through him at Willis’ show of deference. His ancestry rarely afforded him the honor. “Very well,” he agreed, sheathing his blades. He offered a polite bow to Willis before striding through the yard to approach the kneeling commander and all of his men.

The acting-Commodore was unable to mask his surprise at seeing a Dramorian draped in Oceanic livery. His officers tittered nervously. They were not left along in their surprise, however; though Imran’s grasp of Januzian was spotty, he knew enough to dictate the terms of surrender in the dialect – much to the astonishment of all those assembled. Without pause, he switched to Oceanic and repeated the terms for his countrymen to hear.

“Elona has been reclaimed in the name of Oceana. You are now our prisoners. Come quietly and obey our command and you will be ransomed to your homeland when we are through. Resist, and you will wish you hadn’t.”

Imran took the proffered sword of the kneeling Januzian, raising it high above his head. “Oceana!” he shouted. The cry was echoed a hundredfold, the walls of the fort ringing with the triumphant joy of Ithakans and Armathians alike.

“Take those who have surrendered down to the cells and raise the flag high above the fort. Let our countrymen know that we have won the day, and that their bravery has liberated us in our hour of need,” Willis proclaimed. “And men,” he added, an afterthought, “burn that Gods damned Westernese flag that’s been polluting our skies for these past weeks.”

His words were met with a roar of approval; Imran saw several officers in Redrock’s navy uniform hasten to obey. A moment later one of the Armathian captains appeared before Imran, thrusting a long, white and gold Oceanic standard into his free hand. Before he even registered what was happening, two infantrymen had hoisted him upon their shoulders. Imran grinned. If they were looking for a gracious victory speech, they had picked the wrong man.

“We have shown to them,” he shouted, “the strength of Oceana. Let more Westernese dogs sniff at our borders. We will beat them back like the mongrels they are!”

In response, Armathian and Ithakan songs of victory were taken up throughout the yard. Within minutes the field of battle turned to one of celebration. Imran could even pick out the occasional shout of his name as he was borne about the yard on shoulders, infantrymen rushing forward to rub at his boots in a gesture of goodwill and gratitude.

In response, Imran began to wave the Oceanic standard in time with the chants of the townsfolk. These were his people rejoicing before him. He had been the one to lead them to victory. Something profound settled within him. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _after all these years, I have finally become a man of Oceana_.

It was the proudest day of Imran’s thirty-five years.

…

_There it is. Gods, there it is._

Arden clenched his jaw. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to go running up the deck to stand at Valory’s side. He took a knee atop a deck box, using it to balance his weight. A glance upward confirmed that Lars was fighting the same impulse. He held onto the standing rig on the windward side with white knuckles, staring down as the Prince and the Witch King faced one another for the third – and final – time. They had planned this moment in excruciating detail. Valory would battle the Sea-Witch King alone.

The creature rose to its full height, tentacles unfurling, teeth bared in a sawtooth grin. Valory straightened his back, brandishing his broadsword before him.  If he was afraid, it did not show. The Witch King was not the only formidable foe on deck.

The Witch King struck first, claws crashing into Valory’s broadsword with brutal force. Valory stepped back, absorbing the blow and ducking to avoid the lightning-quick swipe of a tentacle. The creature advanced upon him, crowding in for every bit of space that Valory lost. Little did the creature know that Valory was intentionally leading him forward, up towards the fo’c’sle where the staysail boom was jacked high above their heads.

Atop his deck box Arden nocked his first arrow, butting his shoulder up against the foremast in order to hold himself steady. He would wait until Valory had coaxed the creature into position, then let the arrow fly to the topping lift. An accurate shot would bring the boom – thick enough around to crack a man’s skull – down on the Witch King. But if he missed . . . Arden swallowed hard. If he missed, it was unlikely that Valory could use his enchantment to drop the topping lift in time. If he was bested, the next arrow was meant to keep the promise Arden had made that morning.

_‘If the worst should happen, make sure I do not end up in the creature’s hands.’_

_‘I promise.’_

The next arrow was meant for Valory.

Below him Valory was losing ground, luring the Witch King inboard up the foredeck steps. He made an expert show of putting in effort; powerful arcs of his blade falling just short of their mark, stepping out of the way of the creature’s attacks mere seconds before they would have struck home, panting with exertion. Arden wished he could tell whether or not it was an act.

He spared a glance for the shot of chain lying before the foremast. _Illen, please let us restrain that creature before it does us any harm. Please._ Using chain was a gamble, but hemp would have proved utterly useless against a creature with such blade-sharp claws.

Valory nearly had them in position. The Witch King fought harder as his quarry retreated, ever more certain of his victory with each passing moment. As they drew level beneath the staysail boom, Valory left himself open to attack. Arden held his breath. Here it was.

Just as the creature had done to Arden at Illen’s Arm, it caught Valory’s blade between two of its claws and twisted, forcing Valory to either drop it or allow the torque to break his arm. Valory took a faltering step backwards, one leg giving out. He let himself fall as he dropped his sword, collapsing flat onto his back, enticing the Witch King to take that last step forward.

Arden forced all of the thoughts from his mind as the creature gloated down at Valory in celebration of its triumph. He narrowed his focus to the lay of the topping lift, finding the exact spot he wanted his arrow to strike. This was for Valory. For Siath. For Conrad. For Oceana. Blowing out a long breath, he let the arrow fly.

It struck true. The sharpened tip parted the strands of the line, sending the staysail boom crashing downwards. Valory had gauged the Witch King’s position perfectly. The boom connected with the top of the creature’s crown of tentacles, bearing it down to the deck. It collapsed next to Valory, stunned, tentacles stilled. Arden leapt down from his post on the deck box, praying that they hadn’t overestimated the force of the blow and killed the creature outright.

As Arden raced to the foredeck, Valory sprang to his feet. Together they grabbed hold of the slimy, clammy flesh of the Witch King, gagging at its stench as they dragged it towards the foremast. While Valory pulled the creature into a seated position, Arden snatched up the shackle at the end of the shot of chain and began winding it around the creature’s torso as tight as he could. At the first touch of metal the creature spasmed, tentacles twitching, making it apparent that it was neither dead nor unconscious, but stunned by the blow dealt by the boom.

“Quick,” Valory warned, looping a section of chain around its neck and down. “It’s starting to come around.”

Shackling the chain to itself Arden sprang back just as the creature’s head lifted, letting out a nasty warning hiss, spittle flying between them. Valory moved out of the reach of the stilted swipe of a tentacle.  “Careful,” Arden said, glancing up towards the standing rig where Lars lay in wait, “it’s not going to take too kindly to being chained to our foremast.”

“I gathered,” Valory muttered, reclaiming his broadsword as the Witch King let out another hiss. The boom had concussed it at the very least; Arden could tell that it was having trouble focusing upon their forms. Good. They wanted the creature at the edge of consciousness.

“Remember,” he said, voice pitched low, “we wait until he breaks the chains. He’ll never have the strength to do it and use his talent at the same time.”

“Until he breaks the chains. Right.”

“Here they come.”

The witches turned their attention forward from the quarterdeck, realizing that their King was in distress and making for Arden and Valory with all the haste their undulating tails could manage. The soldiers did their best to pursue the creatures but they were woefully outnumbered. Hearing a thump behind him Arden whirled around, only to realize that more of the creatures had begun to climb up the bowsprit. _Let this happen quickly, for we will not last very long against such odds._ Arden drew his cutlass and rig knife, moving to cover Valory’s back.

“We have to hold them off for as long as we can,” Valory shouted to his men, taking out one of the witches with a powerful thrust. Several more sprang up in its place.

Arden was exhausted, but forced himself to continue raising his cutlass in defiance, to stay sharp on his feet, to strike with precision and force. He was the last line of defense between Valory and the witches. Failure was not an option. Worn as he was it was difficult to light the air before the creatures, but any time one of them drew too near to Valory he would tap into the last of his energy reserves and drive them back with flame.

He was not the only one tiring. Out of the corner of his eye, Arden could see Niko and Jonah fighting side-by-side with the Armathian soldiers, pushing forward in a bid to reach the foredeck and keep the sea-witches from freeing their King prematurely. Niko fought with the desperation of a man protecting his homeland, wielding his cutlass with the brutality normally reserved for use of a machete, unconcerned with his own safety. Despite the single minded focus he brought to battle with the witches, it was he who spared a glance back towards the fort and let out a cry of joy.

“We’ve taken the fort!” He punctuated his words with another vicious slash at a witch, slicing through its neck all the way down to bone. “Elona is ours!”

It was true. In the distance Arden could see the Oceanic flag raised high above the fort. A brief flash of Januzian colors was seen drifting down over the harbor before they were set aflame. Arden grinned fiercely, sending up a brief prayer for the safety of Imran and Gabe before rounding on yet another one of his opponents.

He was not the only one who turned to see what had prompted Niko’s triumphant cry, however. The Sea-Witch King must have recognized the defeat for what it was, and took that opportunity – and their momentary distraction – to break free from its bonds. Surging forward with renewed strength, it snapped the pins holding each shackle together one by one. As their leader drew up to full height the sea-witches renewed their efforts, attacking _Windjammer_ ’s crew with heretofore unseen viciousness. Arden fought on, watching helplessly as the creature swept forward, breaking through its own ranks as it made straight for Valory.

He heard Lars’ yell before he saw him. The fisherman jumped from the standing rig, spear extended, throwing himself into the Witch King’s path. With unerring precision his spear struck the vulnerable flesh of the Witch King’s gills; the force of his dive drove the spear straight through one slit and out the other side. His shoulder barreled into the creature’s chest, slamming them both into the foremast. Lars grunted with the impact, pushing himself off of the Witch King as soon as he had his feet under him once more. He stumbled back several steps before righting himself and drawing his cutlass.

The Witch King let out a mighty wail, body seizing. Lars had dropped to the deck with such force that the spear was driven into the mast, pinning the creature in place. The noise drew the attention of all of the witches. A single look at their King was all they needed to know that the cause was lost; he could never recover from the blow he had been dealt. Hissing at one another, they began to retreat en masse. Arden followed them to the rail, but only managed to fell one more before they disappeared over _Windjammer_ ’s cap rails and into the deep.

He turned back inboard as Valory paced down the foredeck towards the Witch King, who clutched at the unforgiving metal spear trapping him against the mast with increasing desperation. The creature thrashed, twisting and turning in an attempt to dislodge the spear – but to no avail. Lars had struck true; its struggles were fruitless.

Dodging the halfhearted swipe of a tentacle, Valory raised his broadsword in a single deliberate motion, pointing the tip against the soft flesh where the skin of the Witch King’s torso met the armored scales of its tail. The creature stilled, empty eyes returning Valory’s stare. In that moment, Arden had the satisfaction of witnessing the expression painted across its hideous face as it realized it had lost. Valory pressed forward, tip of his broadsword biting into the Witch King’s body.

“For my brother,” he growled, ramming the sword into the creature’s gut and pulling up hard. The creature screamed, shuddered, sagged.

Valory pulled his sword out, letting the bloodied end drop to clang against the deck. The grip hung limp in his palm. For a long moment he stood there in silence, staring at the black blood covering his hands. The Sea-Witch King was dead.

He turned the moment he felt Arden’s hand land on his shoulder.

Arden swallowed, eyes darting back and forth between the gruesome remains of the Sea-Witch King and Valory’s stony expression. “When you said ‘eviscerate’, I’ll admit I thought it was hyperbole.”

A tight smile crossed Valory’s face. He raised his hand, pressing his palm to the sigil stamped over Arden’s chest. “It’s done,” he whispered. Arden bowed his head.

They stayed like that for some time, unmoving, as rejoicing began around them.

…

Verne, lost in his own thoughts, nearly leapt out of his chair at the gasp that left Siath’s lips. Persephone’s head, which had been resting upon her son’s chest, snapped up at the sudden sound. They watched as Siath took one, two, then three more lungfuls of air before quieting. Persephone let out a wounded noise. She turned to Verne, eyes quietly begging for his intervention.

Verne needed no more invitation. He barreled across the room to Siath’s side, dropping to his knees on the stone floor beside his sick bed. Persephone and Miran sat on tenterhooks as Verne pressed his fingers against the pulse point in the Prince’s neck, desperate to feel for evidence of a beating heart.

“Is he?” Persephone’s words came out in a soft sob.

“My Lady,” Verne murmured, hand beginning to tremble. He felt nothing.

“Please Gods, no. Don’t let them take my son,” she whispered, eyes clouding with tears.

Verne shifted his fingers, jumping when he felt the faintest throb of a beat. “Wait,” he said, stilling. There it was again: a reedy rhythm against his fingertips, distressing for its lassitude.

He counted the beats in his head, growing in strength until they began to tap out a firm tempo against the pads of his fingers. He watched, joy rising in his breast, as the pinched look to Siath’s features finally began to ease. The Prince’s chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths.

“Verne?” Persephone asked, voice tremulous.

Verne swallowed, wet relief stinging his eyes. “He lives.”


	23. Chapter 23

_The Season of Peace  
Erád the 7; 2421_

“The fort is a wreck,” Valory admitted as he, Arden, and Francis strolled down the deck of _Venture_ together.

“Did they execute any officers aside from the Admiral?” Francis asked.

“A Captain as well, though it wasn’t a public execution. His men seem to think he drowned on the board. I’m led to believe that the Januzians are rather heavy-handed with its use.”

“Gods,” Francis winced. It was a terrible way to die. “I suppose that explains why it has been so hard to get a confession out of that Belenese Commodore. If he’s used to Januzian tactics . . .” Francis sighed. “How fare the survivors?”

Arden shook his head. He had insisted upon overseeing the release of those imprisoned by the Westernese. The state of some of the men had been horrifying. “We suspect the Januzians denied them food and water to keep them susceptible to interrogation and too weak for rebellion. Most were insensible, and fought us when we came to liberate them. Starvation aside, it seems that the Januzians have no qualms about beating enemy officers. Many of our men suffered from blood loss and the infection of open wheals on their backs.”

“Barbaric,” Francis said, eyes hardening.

“Yes. At least we were fortunate in one regard: the fort was not built to house so many prisoners. They were crowded several to a cell, and enough of the men had Healing talents that none met their end down there.”

“No sight of the Master Empath?” Francis asked.

“The townspeople confirmed his death when we spoke to them. The Januzians hunted him down. They must have known what he was capable of,” Valory said.

“He gave his life to save his people,” Arden murmured.

“We will honor his memory and that of the late Admiral,” Francis assured them. “I have given Willis command of Elona in the interim, but I suspect he’ll be made Admiral in short order.”

“As well he should be. He was an invaluable part of this action,” Valory said.

“Willis and his men were all volunteers,” Francis nodded. “Remarkable bravery. The Captain hadn’t yet compiled a list of casualties before I had to return to _Venture_. Do you know how our infantry fared?”

“No worse than we had predicted, though final numbers are expected in the morn. The cavalry surprised us, however; they escaped unscathed,” Valory said.

“That’s good news, at least. Your Lieutenant seemed to think that they anticipated our attack on the harbor, but were unprepared to guard the western gate.”

“They rushed to defend the harbor as soon as they saw our sails. They mustn’t have thought we could land so many cavalrymen in Redrock undetected,” Arden said, the faintest hint of a smug smile on his face.

“Well my Lord, you pulled one over on them. Thank the Gods you kept that idiot Lester from plotting strategy on our behalf,” Francis replied. “You can’t expect a man who’s lived that long in the desert to have any conception of what it takes to launch an attack on an island.”

“He’s a man of no mean rank,” Valory said. “I might not like nor trust the man, but neither were good enough reasons to exclude him from this council.”

“Daft politics,” Francis muttered. “Lord Arden, it surprises me you’re not a military man, though after years on a mercenary ship I suppose I can see how you developed a head for strategy. Still, I’d offer you a Captaincy if I thought you’d take it.”

“I would be honored, Admiral, though I would always remain first and foremost at the command of my Lord Valory,” Arden said.

“I think the matter is worth some consideration,” Valory said, inwardly thrilled that his Steward would be afforded such an honor. “Perhaps we might discuss the matter more upon our return to Armathia.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Francis said. “I assume you are both anxious to return to _Windjammer_.”

“We do not intend it as a mark against your hospitality, Admiral, but when we left for shore there were several wounded aboard. I am anxious to see how they have fared,” Arden admitted.

“I will not detain you any further. If you please, when you return to your vessel—”

“I will remind Callum to send his report to you,” Arden promised.

They bid the Admiral goodnight before crossing the gangway to the next vessel; an Armathian brigantine whose sailors sprawled across the decks in cheerful celebration.

Elona’s harbor wasn’t large enough to allow the entire Armathian fleet to drop hooks. To conserve space the vessels rafted to one another, tying off beam-to in several clusters throughout the anchorage. As night fell and most of the day’s work had finished, the Captains permitted their men to lay down their duties and celebrate the hard-won victory. The upcoming days would be dedicated to repairing the destruction wrought by the Januzians. Interrogations would begin, ransoms would be negotiated, damage would be assessed and cataloged. For now, however, they were all happy to be alive.

For his part, Arden was almost afraid that he would wake up and find out that victory had been a dream; a wild, vivid dream he’d had while dozing in the hammock with Valory. Or even worse, to wake up and find himself back in Anaphe the morning after his day, the events of the past few months never having happened at all.

He couldn’t imagine going back to the life he’d had before. He had spent the better part of his life searching for a place, and now that he had found it, he planned on holding on to it with everything he had. He rubbed a hand over his chest, the relief of his insignia catching on his calluses. Yes, he had found his place in spite of it all, and it was here, in the thick of things, with Valory at his side.

It still hurt to think too hard about the way he had found it. He missed Conrad so much it ached; he suspected he always would. Although it was excruciating to think that he would never see him again, he knew that the Stewardship was a way to pay tribute to his brother’s memory. He would do Conrad proud. One day they would meet again in the East, and he would be able to thank Conrad for the gift, however unintentionally it was given. He consoled himself with those thoughts.

With memories of Conrad never far from his mind, Arden knew that Valory was dwelling on the fate of his own brother – a fate which would remain unknown until they returned to Armathia. As he and Valory passed across the brigantine’s deck, they thanked the crew for their well-wishes, though they declined the offer to join them in their merrymaking. Arden hustled Valory away from the celebration. He could tell from the set of Valory’s shoulders that the man had little interest in revelry. They had won the day, yes, and the Sea-Witch King was dead, but that would matter little to him if Siath had not been spared.

 _Windjammer_ was rafted to the other side of the navy brigantine. The space on deck cleared for the makeshift gangway was deserted; Callum had given his crew leave at sundown. Since then most had congregated on the quarterdeck – along with several navy men from _Venture_ and the neighboring brigantine – where there was music and dancing. It was the dancing that brought Arden to the conclusion that Ehrin must have dug out the ship’s hidden cache of spirits.

Little greeted them as soon as they stepped aboard. As a Healer, he was one of a handful of men still working even at that late hour.

“How are they looking?” Valory asked without preamble.

“Well enough,” Little said. As they drew nearer it was easy to see how exhausted he was. Spending the better part of a day exercising an enchantment was no mean feat. “Still only the one casualty: the soldier that the creatures got to before you bested the Witch King.”

“What of the others?”

“The two with the chest wounds look like they’ll make it through. They’re weak with blood loss, but both woke up a few hours ago. Miss Ehrin has since put them back under with one of her teas.”

“Did you save the Second Lieutenant’s leg?” Valory asked.

Little shook his head. “We had to amputate just above the knee, but it’s looking like he’ll come ‘round.”

“Chances of infection?”

“I’ll check in the morn, but we’ve done all we can for now. I’ve got to tell you sir, I’m glad Miss Ehrin was in there with me. She may not be a Healer, but she’s a damn fine ship’s surgeon.”

“That she is,” Arden agreed.

“The Lieutenant was lucky to have her, else I dunnae if he’d have made it. I was so busy with the other two . . .” Little shook his head. “I helped with the worst of the bleeding, but otherwise she and the loblolly did the whole thing themselves. Really sir, she deserves a commendation for it. I’ve seen grown men faint over less.”

“She’s a tough little bird,” Arden nodded.

“Tough, yeh, but she’s down there now holding the poor bugger’s hand and listening to him drone on about his sweetheart back home.”

Arden smiled. “That’s Ehrin.”

“A right good lass,” Little said. “And how have you fared, sirs? Anything I need to know about?”

“No injuries this time, not that you’re in a state to do aught in any case. Get some rest, Little; you have my leave,” Valory replied.

“Thank you, sir. I might have a kip before joining the revelry. Oh, that reminds me: Gabe’s up and looking for you.”

Valory frowned. “I’d have thought the knock he took to the head would have bade him sleep longer.”

Little shrugged. “He seemed well enough, though a mite jumpy, if you ask me. He’s up on the quarterdeck.”

“Very well, then; we’ll see what news he has. Good work today, Little.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Little demurred, clapping them both on the back before disappearing into the forward compartment.

Valory and Arden proceeded towards the quarterdeck. One of the soldiers was leading the men in a ribald sailor’s song. He stuttered as soon as the Prince appeared, but quickly regained his footing when Valory waved off his concern.

Gabriel, who had been sitting on a deck box, leapt up as soon as he saw them.

“I was told you were looking for me,” Valory said.

“For both of you, sirs. I have some news.”

“Should we go forward?”

Gabe shook his head. “I think it’ll do the men good to hear it.”

“Let’s have it, then,” Valory said. Arden signaled Jonah, who stopped fiddling in the midst of a verse. Gabe’s quiet voice filled the resulting silence.

“You know I spent some time with one of Master Lawrence’s priests when we were in Bightton, yes?”

“Rubin, the Empath,” Valory supplied.

“Yes. We spent a scant few hours in discussion, but it seems that was more than enough for him to familiarize himself with my signature.” Gabe took a deep breath. “He found me when I was sleeping.”

Valory’s brows rose. “He mind-spoke with you in your dream? Today?”

“Just now – an hour ago, no more. He said he had been trying to find me for the better part of the day, but it was too difficult when I was awake.”

Valory let out a breath. He’d known that Rubin was capable of such a thing, but he hadn’t thought Gabriel powerful enough to sustain a connection. “What else did he say?”

Gabriel nearly trembled with excitement. “Hello, for one – especially to you, my Lords. He asked for news. He knew we were in Elona.”

“He asked for news?” Valory repeated.

“I – it was incredible – I was able to reply. I know he did most of the work keeping the channel between us open, but—”

“No need to demure; you’re right, that _is_ a remarkable development for you. Congratulations.”

“Yes, well,” Gabriel blushed, “I told him our news. Lawrence is sending him over to Ithaka. He was meant to be the Master Empath’s apprentice, so it is only logical he should take up the title.”

“He is more than powerful enough, it seems,” Valory agreed. “What else?”

Gabe knew what the Prince was really saying: _why are you telling me this with an audience?_ “Rubin said he reached out to contact me because, early this afternoon, all of the Belenese officers in captivity on Kilcoran finally started talking.”

There was a heartbeat of silence as all those present digested that information. “What are they saying?” Arden asked.

“I asked that too, but Rubin was tiring. He said he’d brief me tomorrow night, and would have dispatches sent along thereafter.”

“What, not a single word?” Valory asked, frustrated. Arden laid a hand on his arm.

Gabriel bit his lip. “He said you weren’t going to like what they had to say.”

“I see.” Valory’s face had turned to stone. He had begun to turn away from the quarterdeck, but Gabe stopped him.

“Wait, sir,” he said, “that’s not all. Before he broke the connection, Rubin said I should tell you, _‘all minds freed’_.”

“ _All_ minds?” Valory asked.

“That’s what I asked as well. He had enough energy to repeat himself, quite emphatically. _All_ minds freed.”

Valory swallowed. It was clear what Rubin had meant. “My brother is alive,” he said, voice thick with emotion. Gabriel nodded, a wide smile on his face. “My brother is alive!” He clasped Gabriel’s arm, thumping him soundly on the back.

The soldiers, who had been hanging on every word of their conversation, erupted into cheers. One of the men called out, “Long live Prince Siath!” Valory and Arden both joined in the echo.

In an uncharacteristic show of exuberance, Valory pulled Arden towards him, their chests colliding with an audible thump. “We did it.”

Arden returned the fierce embrace. “I know, thank Gods.”

“Thank _you_.” Blue eyes met grey-green. “Thank you.”

“You never need thank me, Val,” Arden murmured. “We made an agreement, didn’t we? _I’ll stand with you in all things_ , no ‘pleases’ or ‘thank-yous’ required.”

As Valory stepped back, they heard the soldier’s call of ‘Long live Prince Siath!’ begin to resonate around the anchorage, carrying and celebrating the good news – first on the brigantine, then on _Venture_ , then beyond.

“Well if this doesn’t call for a toast, I don’t know what does,” Lars said, approaching with Imran, a mug of grog for each of them in his hands.

Arden accepted a mug and raised it, drawing the attention of all those assembled. “A toast,” he said, “to our Princes. May they lead us to victory in all the long years to come.” Mugs clanked.

“To all the soldiers here today, without whom such victory would be naught but a dream,” Valory added.

“To Oceana!” Imran cried, raising his cup.

“To Oceana!”

Revelry began again, this time with an old Oceanic song of victory.

The war was not over: all knew it. Rubin’s words hinted at news that would have Oceana’s armies mustering once more in the very near future. For that one night, however, they could afford to lay down their arms and celebrate life.

Valory smiled, leaning into Arden’s shoulder. For all of the tragedy and grief that the shadow had brought, he had still managed to find good in it. That bit of good was at his side, mug raised, eyes creased in laughter. It gave him all of the hope he needed to pick up and continue the fight. No matter what the future had in store, they would keep on just as Arden had said: Prince and Steward, side-by-side, standing together in all things.

_‘Till Illen bear me East._

…

Night had fallen. Servants bearing their evening meal had long since come and gone. Before him Persephone dozed in her high-backed chair, one delicate hand still covering her son’s as she slept. Next to him Miran was reading by candlelight, lips moving silently as he studied a text on ancient military treaties between Saria and Oceana. Verne’s own book lay abandoned in his lap. He had tried to concentrate for hours, but had given in to his wandering thoughts in the end.

His lack of distraction meant that he was the first to react when Siath’s breathing changed; hitching first, then becoming shallower. Verne was at Siath’s side, kneeling as he had before, by the time Miran looked up.

“My Lady.”

Persephone snapped awake at the words, eyes falling on Siath just in time to see him shift in his sleep. “Siath?” she called, a hopeful lilt to her voice. “Can you hear me, love?”

Siath’s whole body moved this time, arms lifting and back arching as he stretched, letting out a long groan. After holding the position for a moment, his arms fell back to the bed with a sleepy sigh. For a moment it seemed as though the Prince was going to drop back into the heavy, restorative sleep that had held him since early that afternoon. Just as he had begun to relax, however, he stiffened, arms and legs going rigid.

“My Lord?” Verne said. “Please my Lord, on behalf of your family and mine—”

Verne did not get to finish his sentence. Siath had snapped awake, dark eyes open and alert. In a single powerful motion he sat up, reaching out and grabbing Verne’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

“Siath?”

The Prince winced, rubbing his throat with a hand.

“Gods, of course – my Lord’s throat must be raw,” Verne said, fumbling for the pitcher of water at Siath’s bedside.

Siath took the proffered glass gratefully, one hand sliding down to squeeze his mother’s as he drank. The Queen looked as though she was about to cry with relief.

“Are you alright, my Lord?” Verne asked as the Prince drained the glass. “You’ve been under for nearly three months. Was it the Sea-Witch King who held you?” At Siath’s slow nod, Verne said, “Then Prince Valory has met with success, and the Witch King is dead.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s over.”

His words sparked an intense reaction in Siath, who dropped the empty glass on the bedding and clutched at Verne’s arm once more. “Not—” his voice was hoarse with disuse. “Not—”

“Not the Sea-Witch King?” Verne asked, confused. A look of distress captured Siath’s features, fingers twisting into the fabric of Verne’s livery.

“Not over,” Siath managed, words stilted. “Verne,” he rasped – “it’s Zathár.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/23/2015: Editing this thing is a mission.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who has helped with this process, either through kudos, comments, feedback, or words of encouragement -- every little bit has made a difference.
> 
> Woop!

**Author's Note:**

> So, here lies the end of Book One: A Wicked Whisper Came. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for sticking through and reading all the way to the end. Any feedback you have would be welcome; I want this story to be the best it possibly can be!
> 
> A special thank you to those who have already left comments. There's a lot left to do with this story arc, and all of your words keep me inspired and motivated. Click on for the next work in this series -- Upon a Western Wave.


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